


The Son of the Fire Lord

by inbetweenfractals



Category: Avatar: The Last Airbender
Genre: 2nd person POV, Gen, Misgendering, Nonbinary Character, Various other characters I'm sure, Zuko-centric, actually multiple characters are queer, but nb!zuko is the focus
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-06-16
Updated: 2017-11-01
Packaged: 2018-07-15 10:04:19
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 25
Words: 43,730
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7218133
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/inbetweenfractals/pseuds/inbetweenfractals
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>You are the son of the Fire Lord.</p><p>(In which Zuko is not a boy, but not a girl either, but has to play the part of a man.)</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. boy

**Author's Note:**

> In large part this story comes from my own frustration as a nb person, who in order to pursue the work that I want has to present myself as someone I am not. So, yeah, I'm projecting a bit, though I am not Zuko, and the way I write them is not quite reflective of me.
> 
> Anyway, some of the central focus of this story is misgendering, so heads up.
> 
> Lastly, I'm posting chapters in ways that they feel like they fit, so chapter length is going to vary quite a bit. I think it works best like this though!

When you are born, you are named Zuko. You are the son of the Fire Lord.

 

 

You are not a boy. It’s a stupid thing to think, but it’s not like anyone actually thinks you’re smart.

You are not a boy, but you are a boy. You have been Prince Zuko all your life. You are the _brother_ to Azula’s _sister_. You have a flat chest, narrow hips, a penis and balls and square hands. Male, male, male.

And it’s not like you think you are a girl. You don’t even know what that would be like. Would you be rounded? But no, Azula has always been sharp as a knife, except for when she was little. Before she knew what knives were. You hold a hand, cupped softly, to your chest. Breathe a moment. But that doesn’t feel right. You drop your hand. What makes a girl not a boy? You have the sense that girls are scary, but the only girls you know are your sister, Mai, and Ty Lee. They’d be scary, either male or female. Maybe they’re scary _because_ they’re girls?

You’re not scary. You’re barely competent at all the things you should be good at, and really, that’s the same as failing.

You pull your tunic on over your head. You pull your hands through the sleeves, looking at how the dark red brings out the warm tones in your skin. Your turn your hands over, looking at the blue-green veins lining the underside of your wrist. It seems strange that there’s water in you when you are of the Fire Nation.

Maybe Azula has fire in her veins, not blood. Maybe that is why she is so much better at bending than you.

You scowl at yourself in the mirror. Your mouth twists. Your jaw is already becoming broad - you’re a boy.

You leave your room almost at a run, headed to your firebending lesson.

 

 

You’re a boy but not a boy. You aren’t a girl. What are you? Sometimes you feel like you’re nothing.

When you feel like that, you like to ghost through the corridors. Step so softly you don’t make a sound. Move with the pattern of the shadows. Bend to fit the walls, the columns, the doorways, the empty spaces.

You feel like a spirit. You like that, almost. Spirits, they aren’t really alive, but they can be killed, so they aren’t dead either. They’re something in between. Like you. That’s the way they’re supposed to be.

Like you?

 

 

You will learn respect, and suffering shall be your teacher.

You are the son of the Fire Lord. But what happens when the Fire Lord doesn’t want you?

_No!_

That _can’t_ be right. It can't! He loves you, or, or he _can_ love you and just doesn’t right now. You just have to be worthy of that love. You have to be, you have to, you have to.

You have to find and capture the Avatar.

It’s the only way.


	2. aching

You’ve realized lately that you hate it when people think you’re a boy. It’s grating. It hurts, even. Like where you were burned.

Which is stupid. It shouldn’t feel that way. You’re a boy. You’re the son of the Fire Lord. You are the prince of the Fire Nation.

The _banished_ prince.

You want to scream. But there’s nowhere to go but this ship, and it’s too small and too cold and too tight. The crew already dislikes you. Too young, too stupid. Too weak. Everyone knows it, everyone can see it. You make them see it. Because you don't know better. Because you can't _be_ better.

You flex your hands like they’re claws. The dragons are all dead but sometimes you wish you were one. Then you could be angry and alone and no one would see you as weak as you really are. No one would talk to you anymore. And someone would finally come along and kill you and that would be _just fine_.

There’s always a scream in your chest. You lock it up tight, but you’re angry so often. It’s better to be angry, to turn your anger to fire. The only other option is to curl up into yourself and try not to feel. But you would never get home that way. You'd never move again. And not feeling means no fire. So you stay angry, keep yourself angry and try not to let yourself feel anything else.

Uncle Iroh looks at you with sad eyes when he thinks you don’t see. But you do see, and his pity only makes you angrier.

 

 

You wish you hadn’t noticed.

It didn’t bother you when you were a child, so it makes no sense why it bothers you now. But now it feels like when uncle changes the bandages over your burn, rough and raw and painful.

Every time someone says _sir_ to you, every time you are called _Prince Zuko_ , every time you overhear someone using _he_ and _him_ to refer to you.

It scrapes and hurts and scratches every time.

It just isn’t right, that language. You aren’t male, but the words are. And you can’t really explain it, don’t know what words to put to the feeling, the sense of wrongness. You can’t articulate why it feels so uncomfortable, just that it does.

But you had been just fine as a child! You had been perfectly content to be the prince, to be the son of Lady Ursa and Fire Lord Ozai. You can’t understand why what was right then is wrong now. If only you could forget how wrong it feels.

 

 

You’re in your uncle’s quarters when it happens. Uncle is trying to explain to you how a sextant works and how you can use to determine your position in the ocean, but you’re tired because you haven’t been able to sleep right for weeks, ever since your father banished you, and the numbers and the explanations, it all gets fouled up in your head, messy and snarled like a bunch of knotted thread. He’s saying something and you’re not following, you’re not understanding cause you’re stupid and worthless and wrong and this is why your father doesn’t want you anymore. The thread in your brain pulls taut and -

“Prince Zuko - ”

And you snap, like the shitty, angry little dragon-brat that you are.

“Stop calling me that!” you shout, standing abruptly and knocking the chair over.

“Prince - ” he starts again, reaching a hand out for your arm. You slap him away.

You both freeze.

What have you done? What have you _done_?

You lashed out at Iroh, who has only ever been kind to you, brother to your father, kind for no reason and now he’ll take that kindness away. You hit him, unprovoked, and he has nearly as much right as your father to burn you now too. Your wound hasn't even healed yet, but it will scar. 

You drop to your knees and press your forehead against the floor. Cold metal. You drag your hands over your head, twisting your hands in your hair. Your hair tie snaps and falls. You fist your hands in your hair. “I’m sorry, I’m sorry, Uncle, I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I - ”

Warmth. His hand hovers over your back. Your voice cuts off abruptly but you are still mouthing _sorry sorry sorry_.

Iroh doesn’t touch you. Instead, he steps back and you can hear him walking away. Something sick twists up inside you, and you don’t know if it is relief or regret that you feel.

But he doesn’t leave. You hear a small clatter and the hiss of steam. The quiet scrape of the lid being lifted off a teapot. The pouring of water. A tea container opened, the sound of a spoon dipping into tea leaves. Leaves into water, the spoon set down.

Something about the sounds of the ritual unclench the tightness in your stomach. Your grip loosens, and you no longer grasp your hair so tightly it hurts.

Uncle Iroh heaves a sigh as he sits.

Gradually, the scent of jasmine fills the air.

“Why don’t you sit by me,” he says, “And we can have a relaxing cup of tea?”

He leaves it as a question. An invitation.

You feel shaky as you push yourself up off the floor and move over to where your uncle is sitting. You kneel on the red cushion beside him.

“There’s no need to make yourself uncomfortable,” he says.

You shift your legs out from under you and sit cross legged. Iroh doesn’t quite smile, but he no longer seems so stern. You watch his hands as he picks up the tea pot. They’re broad, with calluses and some strands of white hair on the backs of his hands and his knobbly knuckles. Bones shift under his skin as he pours the tea into two cups.

He sets one in front of you and you pick it up. The ceramic is warm against your fingers. You might not care much about tea, but it is fragrant and...nice. It’s nice. You’d forgotten what it felt like, for something to feel nice.

He doesn’t say anything but you know he’s waiting.

You set the cup down without drinking from it. Your stomach is all twisted up again. Your mouth is suddenly dry, but you don’t think you could swallow the tea without choking on it.

“I’m sorry, Uncle,” you say again. You take a ragged breath. When did you start crying? You swipe a hand across the one eye that isn’t hidden by bandages. “I just - I don’t - I can’t be called that right now.”

You stop speaking. How can you explain this? You’ve never told anyone. It’s not normal. It’s not. What if he hates you? Even if he doesn’t, he’ll never understand.

Iroh sips his tea. When it’s clear that you don’t know how to go on, he asks, “Prince or Zuko?”

“...prince.”

Iroh looks you in the eye very intently. You can see something of the Dragon of the West in him. Something great, something untouchable. “Is this because of your exile?”

“What?” You hadn’t even thought about that. “No! No, it’s not that.”

“If not that, then…?”

“It’s just…” You twist your hands in your tunic. You feel like you might throw up. You taste acid on your tongue. “I’m not a boy.”

Iroh doesn’t say anything. You can’t look up at him.

“I’m, I’m not a girl either. But I’m not a boy, and everyone calls me sir and prince and him and - and - and I hate it!” The candles on Iroh’s desk flare. “I hate it,” you mumble.

Iroh leans away. Your hands tremble. You can hear him take another sip of tea. After what feels like a very long time, he muses, “I have heard of people who are neither man nor woman. They are said to be touched by spirits, meant to represent balance among the elements and peoples.”

You stare at him now, something thrumming in your chest. Recognition. What he said strikes a chord in you. You aren’t so sure about the whole balance thing, but… “You mean there are other people like me?”

Your voice cracks on the last word.

Uncle’s gaze is soft as he looks at you. “So it seems. But Zuko, this means that you must think very carefully upon your future.”

“What do you mean, Uncle?”

Uncle doesn’t look like he wants to continue speaking but will anyway because he believes it is right. You already know that you won’t like what you hear, but it is better to know. At least, that is what you try to believe.

“I mean that those sorts of people are not accepted by the Fire Nation.”

You suddenly feel cold, as if a waterbender has doused you in ice water.

He continues, “The Fire Nation, as it has been for a very long time, sees no more need for balance and no more need for the old stories. I will always be your uncle, Zuko, but you must understand that it would be disastrous for anyone else to know. You must keep this secret.”

You can just imagine what disastrous might entail. And it would only bring further dishonor on your family if people were to know. For the son of the Fire Lord to be...to be whatever you are. You understand that. But when Uncle said that there were others like you, you had sort of hoped that…

You don’t know what you hoped.

Iroh grabs your shoulders firmly. You startle. “You must keep this secret. Do you understand me? Prince Zuko, you must.”

“I understand that!” you snap, shrugging his hands off.

“Do you?” He attempts to reach for you again.

“Yes!” The candles in the room flare more wildly than before as you stand and step out of his reach. “I got it! Nobody else will ever know!”

You’re angry again. You doubt that is what Uncle wants of you, but that is what he got.


	3. scar tissue

Uncle doesn’t mention your gender or lack thereof unless you talk about it first. You rarely say anything to him about it. You are no longer angry at him about it, but still you don't want to hear him say, ever so reasonably, "But you must remember the future, Prince Zuko." Whenever you have spoken to him, he always reminds you gently about your role as prince. It is the gentleness that's worst.

No, you're no longer angry at him about that, even though you often end up acting that way.  But you are still angry with yourself.

 

 

 

Finally, the bandages come off for the last time.

It’s odd to feel the air cold against your skin. But now you can see with both eyes...sort of. Your left eye can no longer open fully. Its vision is hazy, like you are permanently looking through smoke. You will have to account for your impaired vision when you fight now. As if you didn’t struggle enough.

“How do you feel?” Uncle asks.

“I’m fine,” you say. You stand and try to ignore your uncle’s eyes on you as you walk to see yourself in your polished copper mirror.

Your reflection stares back at you, horrified. You look - you look _repulsive_. The scar is red and angry, the skin rough and furrowed like a freshly plowed field. Your left eye is a slit. Your iris looks hazy, no longer the same bright gold as your other eye. Even your ear is damaged, the upper curve of it almost entirely burnt away.

When you scowl at yourself, the left side of your mouth does not move as far. Your frown is an uneven twist.

Your hair makes it worse. Some of it had burnt off, and more had been shaved in order to treat your wound. And then, later, more shaved to make it even. You still have the remainder tied up high in the customary phoenix tail, which shows that even banished you are still the prince. But honestly, it looks bad.

The hair and the scar together are painful to look at. You want to turn away from the mirror, you want to throw up, you want to cry that this can’t be you, it can’t be. It can’t.

But you force yourself to keep looking. You won’t run away. You have to move forward.

And as you stare, you get the sickening feeling inside that this is _right_. It is what you deserve, after all, for humiliating your father and dishonoring yourself. But more than that, this is _you_.

You _are_ repulsive. You _are_ painful to be around. You’ve proven that, with how you can’t restrain yourself from snapping at your uncle and your crew, with how your flames can get away from you and hurt others.

You are the boy who doesn’t want to be a boy. Who can’t choose. Who is the disgraced, worthless son of the Fire Lord.

It is only right for your outward appearance to reflect the sort of person you are.

You decide then that you will continue to look like this until you’ve succeeded in capturing the Avatar. Your hair will never grow back over the burnt skin anyway, where the scar claws its way past your hairline. This painful appearance is you, and it is all you will ever be until you can come home again.


	4. the blue spirit

Whenever you pull into port, you always get off the ship. The first time you walked on land again, you fell. Some of the sailors laughed. When one of them had tried to help you up, telling you that you just hadn’t gotten your land legs back yet, you pushed him away. “I don’t need your help,” you had seethed. “I don’t _need_ anyone’s help.”

Since then, you haven’t fallen once.

Uncle has the bad habit of buying way too much useless junk. You think that he sometimes forgets that funds are limited now, and he can no longer spend like a prince. That’s another thing you have cost him. So you always go along, attempting to keep him from buying frivolities. But you get so frustrated at him that you end up yelling at him half the time. You always feel miserable about it later, but that never helps the now, and honestly just adds to the boiling pit of anger that resides in your stomach.

You’re doing your best to bite your tongue as Uncle drags you from shop to shop. Sometimes your eyes linger a little too long on the shimmering fabrics, for which you berate yourself. Sometimes you look at the make up and wonder...then turn your head sharply away, your hair whipping your cheek.

Now you’ve ended up at a shop selling arts and antiques. This for sure has nothing to do with anything useful whatsoever.

You’re trying not to be too shitty a nephew, so you decide that letting him look around can’t hurt as long as you prevent him from spending too much. So you glance around, taking in the calligraphy, fans, block prints, lamps, tea sets, and any number of other curios.

An angry face looms in your vision.

Your breath catches in your throat - then you exhale shakily when you see that it is just a mask. It is blue and white. Its scowl shows off its fangs. It looks like a goblin or something. Something about it draws you. You can’t look away from it.

“Oh, good eye, Zuko!” Uncle says jovially, clapping a hand on your shoulder. “That is an opera mask, the Blue Spirit I believe.”

“Oh.”

Uncle’s voice is too gentle when he says, “Blue represents an unyielding and upright character, you know. Much like you.”

 

 

You go back later in the dead of night to steal the Blue Spirit mask, as well as some clothes to go with it. You do not want the style of the clothing to link you overmuch to the Fire Nation, after all. At ports like this, what is sold is an uneven mixture of Earth and Fire sensibilities.

You pick up the mask and pull it over your face. It fits like it was made for you. You drop a few coins next to where it had been and slink away.

You slip into the clothing and fabric store next. Black is the only way to go if you want to become part of the shadows. You run your hand along the silks. They feel smooth and cool under your palm.

You rip your hand away. You should not waste any time.

You pick out a hood, gloves, loose pants, and boots. The soles of the boots are supple; they won’t last as long as your armored ones, but they _will_ be nearly noiseless. The pants you will be able to move in easily.

Then you pause a moment.

There’s a dress - well, really some sort of over dress. But it’s definitely a woman’s garment, so you might as well just call it a dress. The dress is black as coal, high collared, loose, with long sleeves that could tuck into your gloves, a sash around the waist, and a skirt long enough to reach your lower thigh, with slits cut up to the hip to allow movement.

You’d like to wear it.

Boys don’t wear dresses. But you’re not a boy. And a spirit has no gender.

You slip the garment over your head and button the collar. You twist around a few times experimentally; it’s incredibly easy to move in. You hesitate a moment more. Your fingers tighten reflexively over the collar.

You pick up your stolen items and leave, but not before leaving some money on the counter here as well.

 

 

It is some time before you work up the courage to dress as the Blue Spirit. You dress slowly, making sure everything fits right, that the black cloth covers every inch of your pale skin. Then you look into your mirror.

You don’t look like a woman, but you don’t look like a man either. It’s the dress. It changes your figure into something that doesn’t really look like either/or. It’s something in between, it’s something that’s neither. It really does make you seem like a spirit.

Even though you can’t see your face, your reflection looks like you.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Iroh's comment about what the blue of the mask represents comes from color symbolism in Chinese opera masks. Blue can also denote a secondary protagonist and a sense of justice, which all suit Zuko pretty well.


	5. and years

“Sir? Where do you want to go now?”

 

 

Every day is the same. You wake at dawn. You run through your basic katas. You wash. You eat. You attempt to come up with a new idea of where the Avatar might be. You are frustrated, as always. You spar. Uncle is disappointed with you. You attempt to deal with the day to day running of the ship. You are never adequate. Uncle is disappointed with you. Your fingers play on the knife he gave you: _Never give up without a fight_. He coaches you in meditation, but you can never clear your mind. You are obsessed with your failures. You eat again. You plan for tomorrow, which will be like today. You ready for bed. You doubt you will ever return home. You sleep.

 

 

Years pass. You wouldn’t celebrate your birthdays until you return home, but Uncle insists on good food, a music night, and - of course - tea. Even though it detracts from your mission, it’s okay. It makes him happy, and the crew seems to hate you less after a night off.

You make sure to return in kind for Uncle’s birthday, every year.

 

 

It is too easy to feel like shit, to want to curl up into yourself and stop trying, stop searching. Whenever you are confronted again by the wrongness that is your gender, you feel sick. You remember your father's face when he burned you. And when he burned you, he also took whatever it was that made you happy and he turned it to ash. You aren't happy now. You don't know if you ever were. You're tired. You hate yourself.

But each time you feel yourself sinking in - what, despair? laughable - a relentless frustration rises in your chest. You don't _want_ to feel this way. You don't _want_ to be whatever you are. You don't _want_ to be exiled and disgraced and unlovable. But you are, and the knowledge makes you want to scream, to rend. It makes you want to tear apart this too, too confining ship with your nails and teeth.

You hold onto the anger. It makes your firebending powerful and you strong.

 _Never give up without a_ _fight_.

 

 

You are circling the freezing south again when light splits the sky in two. Maybe it is your hope that makes you realize so quickly, but whether it is hope or intuition or whatever intelligence you apparently possess, you know that it is the Avatar.

You have a chance, after all.

You'll be able to return home!


	6. boy reprise

The Avatar is a boy. A  _ child _ .

Of course, he seems plenty duplicitous and powerful, so maybe that’s just appearances. After all, appearances have never meant much with you. 

Not until you were scarred at least.

You used to look like a boy, a prince, and yet you never lived up to any of those things. Now your body is becoming more and more like that of a man, and you still don’t feel like one. But you’re scarred and you’re ugly, and in that your appearance matches what you are inside. You feel more than a little monstrous. 

But that’s fine, that’s what you want. You don’t care how terrible you are - you are doing what is right for the Fire Nation and for your father. That is all you need to remember until you can go home again.

And the Avatar is your only chance. Nothing can stop you.

Nothing  _will_ stop you.


	7. failure

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So this is where we are getting a little more in line with the actual series, so now there is going to be some lines that are copied or paraphrased from the show. This is still not going to be an exact retelling though, so don't worry bout that!

The days pass in a haze of determination and failure after failure after failure. You can’t sleep but for trying to understand where you keep going wrong. You review each a day a thousand times, you write down what happened so you can try to go over it again with a cooler head, you spend hours tracking the Avatar.

There are certain moments that won't leave your head:

 

 

The Avatar summons a wave of air and slams you through the walls of a nearby house. You hear something crack, and you’re not sure if is the structure of the house or you. You can hear his voice, his friends' voices, and they are getting further away from you. You struggle to move, but everything hurts and you need to gather your strength.

It is so _frustrating_ to be stuck here as the Avatar skips off, so close but not quite in reach. You want everything to burn, but you can’t even summon enough breath to manage a puff of smoke.

Agni  _damn_ it.

You close your eyes, allowing yourself only a moment’s rest in the rubble before you get going.

 

 

As you leave, chest aching, you watch the statue of Avatar Kyoshi go up in flames. Her face quickly chars away. Her fan withers. All the pretty green paint of her clothes is gone. Her arms crack and drop from her torso. The statue topples over, she falls. You can hear people screaming, wailing, crying.

You feel nothing.

 

 

Zhao, ranking high among your most hated people, twists his face into an ugly smirk. He tells you, as if you were a child, that the Fire Lord will soon claim victory in this war.

But you have seen the anger of the Water Tribe, the refugees who took to the skies around the Northern Air Temple even though they are just non-bending peasants from the Earth Kingdom, the Kyoshi Warriors as proud as ever. All the people who defy the Fire Nation in ways both big and small. Ba Sing Se continues to stand - if Iroh couldn’t breach its walls, you very much doubt anyone else’s ability to.

“If my father thinks the rest of the world will follow him willingly, then he is a fool,” you spit.

You love your father, you do. It is only right.

“Two years at sea have done little to temper your tongue,” says Zhao. He doesn’t sound angry. Rather, he sounds like he has you right where he wants you. You think of one of many royal scientists, one who had a collection of insects pinned to boards for study. Buzzard wasps, copper butterflies, spiderflies, scorpion bees, glowflies. “How is your search for the Avatar going, boy?”

Before you can snarl back, Uncle knocks over a weapons display. As Zhao turns towards him and his attention leaves you, you take a breath to make your anger something useful again.

 

 

Zhao attempts to steal your only chance, the Avatar. You can’t let him. _You can’t let him_.

He tells you that if your father really wanted you back, he would have let you return home by now. You’ve already thought of that, of course you have, after this long an exile. And it can’t be true. It can’t. Your father will want you again, will welcome you home, when you bring him the Avatar.

This will _not_ be the end.

 

 

You are apprehensive when you come for the Agni Kai. As Uncle said, you remember what happened the last time you duelled a master. You can never forget.

Your anger makes you strong.

 

 

Zhao is a dishonorable cheat! You spared his life but now you want him dead, you want him dead -

Uncle stops you with a hand. He looks down his nose at Zhao, which has always been an impressive trick of his, short as he is. Uncle says with scorn, “Disgraceful. Even in exile, my nephew has more honor than you.” He places a hand on your back, leading you out of the duelling grounds. He pauses and says, turning away from you, “Thanks again for the tea. It was delicious.”

Then he resumes walking with you. As you leave, you almost stay silent. But Uncle’s grip is firm and warm and you never back down from anything, so you ask in a voice that is more soft than you would like, “Did you really mean that, Uncle?”

He gives you a smile as sly as one of Wan Shi Tong’s knowledge seekers. “Of course! I told you, ginseng is my favorite.”

You hear, _you are worthy enough to be my family_.

 

 

Somehow your uncle always seems to attract messes, this time getting captured by earthbenders. And you're sure he hasn't put on any clothes either. Even so. You've found his sandal, which means for sure you're on the right track. You're not sure if he dropped it on purpose or not. He is the Dragon of the West, after all, and the sandal helps you quite a bit. Then again, it would be rather easy to lose a sandal like this when captured. It doesn't matter. You tuck the sandal into your pack after letting your komodo rhino get a good sniff - you don't really want to be holding the damn thing any longer than you have to.

As you mount again, you spot the Avatar's flying bison in the distance. You need to capture him!

However.

Your first duty is to your uncle, who has stood by your side all this time. You need to rescue him first. 

You're torn for a moment, and your hesitation shames you.

You turn away and urge the komodo rhino faster. You need to get to your uncle quickly. He has to be safe. He has to be.

 

 

The waterbending girl stares at you with hatred in her eyes.

You dangle the necklace in front of her. It means something to her - oh. It’s her mother’s necklace. Suddenly you feel as if you should handle it with greater care, even though you care nothing for this girl and she loathes you.

That’s fine. Hatred doesn't bother you. You know you’re not a good person.

 

 

The safety of the crew doesn’t matter if the Avatar is within your grasp. Your safety doesn’t matter if you can capture him.

If you crew hates you, fine. They’ve hated you for years. You hate them right back, and you hate this stupid, out-of-date, too small ship. You hate the Avatar, you hate this damn quest. You just want to go home.

 

 

Uncle was, as always, right. The storm is too dangerous. You spot the helmsman about to fall from the broken, smoking tower, and you rush forward to rescue him. You may have deliberately put them in danger, but you don’t mean for them to die.

The scoring on the ladder rungs digs into your hands, but a little pain is better than losing your grip in the rain. You arrive in time to grab the helmsman's hand as he falls. His weight wrenches your shoulder. Just as you are afraid you will drop him, Lieutenant Jee is there, pulling him onto the ladder below you. When Jee looks up at you, it is no longer with loathing, but something else.

You climb down after him, rain pelting you. You think longingly of the dry heat of your home. And suddenly, there - the Avatar! You can see his bison from a distance. You were right - going into the storm has gotten you close to him again. The Lieutenant asks you what you want to do, but you remember a similar moment, torn between your goals and your duty.

Duty must win.

“Let him go,” you say, and you try not to let it feel like a defeat. “We need to get this ship to safety.”

You catch Lieutenant Jee’s gaze again, and that _something_ is still in his eyes. You think it might be respect.

 

 

The Avatar slips through your fingers like water. Again and again and again.

 

 

Why must everything go wrong, why must you _always_ be humiliated when the Avatar is involved?

 

 

You fail. You fail again. You can’t stop trying, but you can’t succeed either.

 _This_ is why Father sent you away. He saw this in you. Your inability to succeed. Your failure. Your flaws.

You’re _pathetic_.


	8. friends

_ Admiral _ Zhao does the equivalent of grounding your ship: the Avatar is in the area, and while Zhao is hunting him no ships are allowed to enter or to leave port. You know he’s doing it to get to you; it’s not as if the Avatar is going to stow away on a Fire Nation ship. You’re stuck. You feel like an animal caught in an armadillo bear-trap, leg broken and bleeding, unable to move.

Zhao has every resource he could ever need to capture the Avatar, and you have nothing. You’re going to lose everything.

You stand on the deck, ruminating, until night falls. Uncle left you alone hours ago. He knows nothing good comes when you’re in a mood like this.

It's dark.

You turn away from the railing. You pass no one as you walk quietly to your room. You enter and latch the door behind you. You cross the room and open a small chest hidden under your bed.

The Blue Spirit mask scowls up at you.

 

 

Infiltrating Zhao's fortress is almost too easy. It's not that it isn't well guarded; you can barely go fifty feet without running into another guard. But these guards are all in the mindset of defending the wall from outside, aggressive threats, like an Earth Kingdom militia. They are totally blind to insidious threats like the Blue Spirit, which slips quietly from shadow to shadow.

Now, the only question is whether Zhao has the Avatar yet or not. You haven’t tracked the bison, so you’re pretty sure he’s still around. And Zhao has the Yuyan Archers at his disposal. He almost certainly has the Avatar by now, but the Avatar is something of a sneaky bastard, using his airbending to whisk himself and his travelling companions out of trouble. Out of your grasp.

If Zhao already has the Avatar, as you suspect he does, then you are going to take him for yourself. If he doesn’t, then you’re going to make it harder for him to capture the Avatar by doing whatever you can to destroy his resources.

You just need to find Zhao to figure out which it is, the loudmouth.

 

 

_ Well _ . He’s giving a speech to a great crowd of his men. And it’s about how great he is, how great the Fire Nation is, how great he is for capturing the Avatar - ah. You grin something sharp and feral behind your mask. Crowing about his victory prematurely is going to come back and bite him in the ass. Once he’s lost the Avatar, his men’s morale is going to plummet. 

You should know.

  
  


You’ve studied the Fire Nation military for much of your life. Due to your country’s emphasis on production, most ships and fortresses follow very similar styles, so it isn’t hard to find where the Avatar is being held.

Only four guards - really? If  _ you  _ can tear through them this quickly, then they would be unable to hold the Avatar if he somehow got free.

When you unlock and open the door, you can see the Avatar in the center of the room. Chains bind each of his limbs. That’s the sort of thing that is effective for earthbenders and waterbenders, but is lacking for either an airbender or firebender. Nothing has been done to gag him, so the Avatar still has the full potential of his breath control, and firebenders can still produce flames with their hands without much movement. Of course, the Avatar has never exhibited any firebending that you’ve seen, so while it seems likely that he hasn’t mastered that yet, it is a stupid chance to take.

Since you have no desire to carry a bound or unconscious boy as you make your escape, you have to get him to follow you. Which is a little difficult considering that you can’t say anything. If you do, he’ll almost definitely recognize your voice.

So a little fear, a little trust.

You rush toward him, swinging your dual dao swords in practiced, but theatrical, motions. The unnerved expression on his face quickly morphs to terrified. He screams and shrinks back as far as he can as you bring your swords down on his chains, breaking them. The Avatar blinks, surprised, as you efficiently free him from his bindings.

He hops down from the dais he'd been bound on and peppers you with questions: “Who are you? What's going on? Are you here to rescue me?”

Yeah, sure, like you’ll answer.  _ Hi, Zuko here, banished prince of the Fire Nation, been after you for three years. Zhao’s an asshole so I’m rescuing you, but only until I can capture you myself. Sound good? Now shut up and let’s go! _

That'd go over well.

You gesture for him to follow you. He tells you that he takes that as a yes, that you are rescuing him. Good.

As soon as you’re out of the room, he starts babbling loudly about frogs. Okay, so you  _ knew _ he was just a twelve-year-old boy, but this is just stupid. Good god, does he  _ want _ Zhao to capture you both? You pick him up by the collar like a cat, hoping that’ll shut him up. After a couple seconds more of nonsense, it does. Finally. You need to get moving.

  
  


Once Zhao realizes what you’ve done, things start happening very quickly. You and the Avatar have to fight your way out of the fortress. You focus on your swordsmanship, fighting to keep your temper under control. The Blue Spirit does not firebend - how many firebenders would go against Zhao? Not enough to keep your identity safe. Besides, the Avatar does not trust firebenders.

And, honestly, you want something that isn’t tainted by your anger.

Surprisingly, you and the Avatar make a very good team. You guard each other’s backs without fail. You use your strength to rip through Zhao’s men; the Avatar uses his airbending to help you evade threats. While you’ve fought at the same time and on the same side as other people, this is the first time you’ve fought  _ with _ someone. It feels liberating.

Too bad your companion is your enemy.

Zhao’s firebenders back you into a wall. You resign yourself to using firebending just as the Avatar pushes you behind him and airbends the jets of flame away. He  _ protected _ you. That’s...that’s never happened before. Never.

“Hold your fire!” Zhao shouts. “The Avatar must be captured alive!”

Right, that’s your way out of this mess.

You slide behind the Avatar and cross your swords at his throat. You can hear his breath hitch.

It is a long, tense moment that crawls by before Zhao grinds his teeth and snarls at his men to let you go. A rush of victory flares in your chest, but you maintain focus as you back away, your swords still at the Avatar’s throat. 

You have to move frustratingly slowly, because if the Avatar stumbles or can’t keep up with you, then you could accidentally kill him.

You watch the walls of Zhao’s fortress carefully, but as you get further and further away you begin to believe that you’re safe, that you’ve done it. But then, you can see a lone figure on the wall, silhouetted against smoke and fire and the dark night sky. The figure notches an arrow and pulls back on its bow.  _ Shit _ , the Yuyan Archers - 

A sharp pain flares in your head and - 

 

 

Consciousness comes slowly. You open your eyes. The world is blurry, as fuzzy as a koala sheep’s wool. You turn your head as a high-pitched voice says, “You know what the worst thing about being born over a hundred years ago is?”

A collection of orange and yellow shapes resolves into - the Avatar. He’s sitting next to you but not really looking at you.

“I miss all my old friends,” the Avatar says. “Before this stupid war started, I used to visit my friend Kuzon. The two of us, we racked up a whole heap of trouble, but we always managed to get away in the end. He was one of the best friends I ever had. I miss him a lot. And he was Fire Nation, just like you.”

The Avatar turns toward you and smiles. It’s a sickeningly sweet smile, full of hope. “If we knew each other back then, do you think we could be friends too?”

Friends.

Your head feels all jumbled up. You’re thinking a dozen different things and the universe seems to be actively avoiding making sense. Before you know it, you yell wordlessly as you shoot a fireball at him - at where he _was_ , as the Avatar lands lightly on the branch of a nearby tree.

“Kuzon wasn’t a boy either. Zuko,” he asks, “Are you a spirit person?”

It takes a moment because everything still feels a little slow and out of sync, but you remember Uncle saying that people like you are said to be touched by spirits. Your gut clenches. Oh Agni, if the Avatar knows, then anyone could. And if the Fire Nation hears of it, you’ll never be able to go back home.

“Don’t tell anyone,” you say, staggering forward a couple halting steps. Your voice comes out wrong, too soft, too scared. But fear is something you’ve been able to make use of for a long time.

Now you wish you hadn’t scared him out of your reach with your fireball.

“If you tell anyone, I’ll - I’ll kill them!” you roar, sparks catching on your teeth. The Avatar backpedals, relocated to a branch further away from you. “I’ll kill those Water Tribe peasants you travel with. I’ll skin your damn bison. I’ll wring that lemur’s neck. If you dare say anything, they’re all dead!”

You shoot another jet of flame at him, but he is already retreating. He cares about those friends of his, so either that threat or no threat will work on him. Please, please, it has to be the first. You can’t lose your way back home, not now. This can't all be for nothing.

When he’s gone, you press the heels of your palms to your eyes and stupidly, shamefully, begin to cry.


	9. paralysis

You failed again. You were immobile, on the ground, helpless, as the Avatar and his group got away. The only thing that is okay about this is that there was no mention of spirits or gender, so it seems like the Avatar will stay silent. That waterbender girl would never hesitate to use your weakness against you.

(You remember Azula as you saw her last, sharp like a knife, and cruel.)

When you can move again, Iroh puts a hand on your shoulder. He doesn’t know. You couldn’t tell him. He might have something wise to say, but he doesn’t know about the Blue Spirit, and you don’t want to see the look on his face when confronted with a more personal failure of yours. You shrug him off and rummage through your pockets, looking for enough coin to get you transportation back to the ship.

What? Where - Oh. Oh, no.

The necklace is gone.

It was a bargaining chip. It was a way to track the Avatar. It was the memory of your enemy’s mother.

And now it’s gone.


	10. explosion

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ugh gotta say I hate writing Zhao. That and actual real life have delayed this some (though I never had a set schedule anyway). I'm getting a lot more into chapters that I don't already have written, so updates probably will start taking longer. I care about this story a lot though, so I definitely won't let it drop by the wayside.

When Zhao marches into your room, it feels like a personal violation. A one-man invasion. Zhao truly carries on the spirit of the Fire Nation in everything he does. He shouldn’t _be here_. This room is your home, of a sort - having him here throws you off balance.

You feel even more off balance when he announces that he’s taking your crew to capture the Avatar up in the North Pole.

“What?!” you cry. Zhao doesn’t even  _ need _ your crew; he has plenty of resources of his own. He’s just doing this to get in your way! You turn to Uncle, a bit pleadingly, “Uncle, is this true?”

Uncle responds seriously, “I’m afraid so. He’s taking everyone.” Then, because he’s Uncle and he often tries to bring levity to the darkest moments, he mock-sobs into his arm, “Even the cook!”

Zhao steamrolls over Uncle’s attempts at comedy by telling you, “I can’t have you getting in my way again.”

“ _ Your _ way?” you snarl, lunging forward. Uncle steps in front of you - you are forced to halt your motion so you don’t hit him, leaving you unsteady.

Zhao merely turns away, as if your anger is beneath his notice. He turns - and spies your dual dao swords, which hang on the wall. He freezes. Then Zhao steps forward and takes one of your swords off its hook.

It feels as if Zhao punched you in the stomach instead.

He knows. 

He  _ has  _ to know, Zhao’s not stupid. He’s a conniver, pays attention to details. He stood right in front of you when you crossed those swords, edges sharp at the Avatar’s neck. The shape of the blades is recognizable even if your swords are unadorned.

Zhao swings around the sword experimentally. It's wrong. For one thing, it’s  _ Zhao _ holding the damn sword. For another, he’s only using one half. The dual dao are really one sword in two parts, two halves of a whole, not two separate weapons. Zhao inspects the edge of the blade closely. You hope he cuts himself on it. “I didn’t know you were skilled with broadswords, Prince Zuko.”

“I’m not,” you say. “They’re antiques. Just decorative.”

But it’s a lie and Zhao knows it. Iroh definitely knows it too; you’re not big on decorative. Besides, he’s been able to catch you in a lie for a long time now.

Zhao ignores you and asks Uncle, “Have you heard of the Blue Spirit, General Iroh?”

“Just rumors,” Uncle replies, although you’re sure he’s starting to catch on. “But I did not think that it was real.”

Zhao prowls forward, stepping close to your uncle. You want to rip the sword out of his hands. You want to shove him back. You want to burn him. “Oh, he’s definitely real. And he’s a criminal, an  _ enemy  _ of the Fire Nation.” The words are like fists. Zhao swings around the sword once more, dangerously close to you and Uncle. You hate him, you hate him. Then he stops and hands the sword to Uncle, who takes it slowly. Zhao’s gaze slides over to meet your own. His head tilts upward; he's looking down on you. “But I have a feeling justice will catch up to him soon.”

Zhao pushes past you, saying as he exits the room, “General Iroh, the offer to join my mission still stands...if you change your mind.” 

Then he slams the door shut.  Your room no longer feels like yours. He's invaded it, neatly stolen everything from you, destroyed your future, made your place his.

“Prince Zuko - ” Uncle begins, but you cut him off with a screech of unarticulated, garbled rage. You turn away from him, beginning to pace. Everything is falling out of your control now. Your crew gone, Zhao knows, enemy to the Fire Nation, you’re never going home. Never.

“Zuko.”

Uncle’s voice is gentle but firm. He doesn't call you  _prince_ , which he only does when you're alone with him, when he's trying to speak with the real you. 

You stop but you don’t look at him. “What,” you say flatly.

Uncle sighs. He steps close to you and gives your sword back to you, wrapping your hands around the handle. He pats them with his own, in that old man way of his. You’re no less upset, but a little of the tension falls from your shoulders.

“I’m sorry,” you say.

“No,” he says. “No.”

You step away, returning your sword to its hooks. As you set it back, Uncle says mildly, “I would however wish to know just what the Blue Spirit did to upset Admiral Zhao so badly.”

“I freed the Avatar from him,” you tell your swords. The dual dao blades look right again, crossed together on your wall. Balanced again.

Uncle’s tone is a bit surprised when he says, “I see.”

“Useless anyway,” you say. The rest of your tension fades. Your shoulders slump, just a bit. You may have beat Zhao in Agni Kai, but he’s won overall. You look back at Uncle. “He’s going to take the Avatar now and there’s nothing I can do about it.”

He frowns disapprovingly. “Don’t you still have the knife I gave you?”

_ Never give up without a fight _ .

“Yeah, but sometimes maybe I  _ shouldn’t _ fight!” you snap. “I learned the lesson too late - Father could tell you that. Or, or, I  _ tried _ to fight, but now Zhao’s taking everything. Maybe I should just give up.”

The words taste rotten-sweet in your mouth.

Uncle seems very tired, his age dragging at his face. He reaches forward to put his hand on your shoulder, but you step away from him, backing against the wall. He drops his hand slowly. “Well, meditate on that a bit, Zuko. I’ll come and talk to you again later.”

With that, he takes his leave. 

 

 

Hours later, your door opens, light from the hallway spilling in. Uncle, true to his word, has returned. “The crew wanted me to wish you safe travels.”

“Good riddance to those traitors,” you spit, not looking at him. Anger has returned, but it has soured into a defeated, bitter anger.

“It’s a lovely night for a walk,” he tries. “Why don’t you join me? It would clear your head.”

You don’t say anything. A walk isn’t going to make you feel better. Nothing is ever going to make you feel better. Certainly not Uncle, who’ll either try to make light of the situation or spout enough philosophy to make your head spin. Either way, you'll just get angrier and you'll take it out on him, like you always do.

After a long pause, Uncle says in an infuriating  _ I know better because I am older _ tone, “Or you can stay in your room and sit in the dark. Whatever makes you happy.”

When he shuts your door, it is with a final, definite, click.

You feel frustrated with yourself. Uncle is just as stuck as you are. He doesn’t deserve this. He should be at home, in the Fire Nation, enjoying himself in the warm weather in the gardens surrounding the palace, playing pai sho and drinking all the tea he likes. He should be home. Not in exile, with you.

...if he comes by again, maybe you’ll go with him then.

Distantly, a door creaks on the ship.

Normally that wouldn't be strange, but no one else should be on the ship with you. You’re alone. Something doesn’t feel right. “Uncle?” you call. No answer. You crack open your door. The hallways are dark and silent. Uncle must have turned the lights off behind him. “Is that you?”

Nothing. You’re immediately on guard, stepping through the hallways in that silent walk you learned as a child, playing at being a spirit in the palace. You head towards the sound you heard, but nothing stirs. Something doesn’t feel right.

You make it to the bridge, thinking that’ll give you a good view of the deck. Nothing. Huh. You turn to see a bird perched on the rails outside. An iguana parrot. Just like the one the pirates had. That  _ definitely _ wasn’t right.

The bird squawks at you and takes off.

What - 

Suddenly everything is too fast, too hard, too loud - 

You’re surrounded by fire, you remember your father’s face as he burned you, as he told you that suffering would be your teacher - 

You are blown through the windows of the bridge, glass shattering around you - 

Your clothes are burning, the night air is cool -

You hit the water with a slap -

The world becomes blissfully dark, and silent.


	11. dark and deep

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I got my wisdom teeth out on Tuesday with complications. It has been a very, very long week.

When you open your eyes, you can only see a dark blur. You can’t breathe! You thrash, choking on water. A glimmer of light - you kick at the water, grasping for it. Your hand breaks the surface before your head does. The night air on wet skin makes you shiver. The waves are strong, the natural ones and the ones from the explosion colliding. It’s a struggle to keep your head above water.

Your ship is ablaze before you. Firelight dances on the water like the old festivals at home. It’s dazzling.

You hated that ship with everything you had sometimes, but it had been your only home for three years. You don’t know what you feel right now.

Well, you hurt. You think you might have broken ribs, but your trouble breathing might just be due to the coldness of the water.

You’re dizzy too. You need to get to shore. You turn slowly in the water. There - you can see the golden lights of the port. You’re further out than you realized; the explosion must have blown you pretty far.

Just treading water is exhausting. You have to get moving or else you’ll drown out here. You can’t die. Not yet.

The last time you saw Uncle, he was upset with you.

 _Never give up without a fight_.

Suddenly, the knife he gave you is the most important thing in the world. You fumble for it, thinking, _please, please, please, it can't be lost_. Your shaking hands find it, hidden in its sheath at the small of your back. You still have it. You still have the knife. Feeling a little more sure, you strike out for shore.

You’ve always been a strong swimmer. You’ve heard that Earth Kingdom sailors think it’s bad luck for sailors to know how to swim, like it’s shouting to the spirits, _come on, sink this ship!_ The Fire Nation, however, comprises of many islands in warm water seas, so most people know how to swim, at least a little bit. Tsunamis and floods aren’t uncommon, though you’ve never been caught in either. The navy requires all members to be adequate swimmers, especially firebenders. Even though water is fire’s opposing element, it provides great training for the kind of breath control necessary to be a powerful firebender.

Swimming is one of the very few things you’re better at than Azula.

But for all your skills at swimming, you have to fight with everything you’ve got to get to shore. Every stroke, every kick, every movement - all are as if you are trying to swim through tree sap. Every breath is harsh and ragged.

The twinkling lights at shore guide you like stars. Even so, it takes a very, very long time before you drag yourself out of the water and collapse on the sand. The beach here is studded with millions of pointed rocks, but it feels like the most comfortable bed you’ve ever laid on in your entire life. You let yourself lie there for a while, just breathing.

Something sharp is digging into your shoulder. It’s either a jagged shell or a shard of glass. Right now, you can’t quite bring yourself to care enough to pull it out.

...now what?

You are absolutely, entirely sure that Zhao arranged this. You can feel it in your bones, which are beginning to thrum with a scared, reactive anger. A _let’s hurt him like he hurt me_ anger. Zhao has got to pay for this.

What does Zhao care about most? Power. How’s he gonna get that? He’s going to capture the Avatar. If he fails to capture the Avatar after storming the North Pole, well. He’ll have just wasted a massive amount of resources. Your father would not be pleased.

So if you get the Avatar first, you pay Zhao back and you can go home. How fitting that to enact revenge is also to achieve your long standing goal.

You bare your teeth at the dark sky, illuminated by your burning ship. You can taste blood on your tongue. Fuck Zhao. He’s screwed with you time after time, again and again. No longer. You don’t even want him dead; you just want him devastated. To feel like you have felt, over and over again, for years. To know, in every particle of his being, that he's lost everything.

If you’re going to do this, you need to be at the North Pole when Zhao is there. He’s setting out at dawn tomorrow. That doesn’t leave you a lot of time to sneak onto his ship and bully your body into some level of functionality.

You do have a small advantage: Zhao won’t expect it. He thinks you’re dead. So must anyone who saw your ship go up in flames.

So must Uncle.

 _Shit_ , Uncle!

He’s okay, right? He wasn’t on the ship when it got blown up, so he must be okay. He has to be. Zhao wanted him on the mission, so he wouldn’t kill him. Zhao’s not that crazy. So Uncle has got to be okay.

He just thinks you’re dead.

You lie still, not sure what you feel about that.

...it’s probably for the best. You’ve never been a very good nephew - not even really a nephew at all. You just liked it when he called you nephew because it meant that he was claiming you as family. Like when he would say _nephew_ , he was really saying _I love you, I think you’re worthy_. Which is stupid, because it’s just a word meaning _you are the child of my sibling_. It doesn’t mean anything more than that.

If you fail again - which, by your track record, you’re likely to do - Uncle would be better off if you were dead. It’s just fact. Yeah, he chose to accompany you in your exile, but that’s because he felt sorry for an idiot boy he barely knew. You’ve been a burden on him for three years, and you’ve acted in really ungrateful ways for the majority of that time. Now he knows you well, and you’re nothing worth knowing.

You should just let him believe you dead. He probably finds it a relief anyway.

You have to get moving. _Never give up without a fight._ The best gift he ever gave you. Come on. _MOVE!_

You stand up. The process seems a lot simpler when condensed into three words like that. Really, it goes more like this:

You roll onto your side and push yourself up until you’re kneeling. You have to catch your breath at that. Aah, everything hurts. You drag one leg forward until all your weight is split between your back knee and your front foot, which you dig into the gravel. You shift your weight forward, slowly extending your legs. You nearly stumble, but are able to catch yourself, balanced on both feet. Finally, you're standing.

With similar excruciating slowness, you locate the dock and begin to head towards it. There are plenty of boulders scattered on the beach - this once was the site of a battle between Fire Nation forces and a platoon of earthbenders. The rocks provide excellent cover and good places to rest, which you need to do frustratingly often.

You have to be careful; you can hear a babble of men’s voices, exclaiming over the explosion, weaving theories, spreading rumors. You can hear someone sobbing.

The person crying isn’t on the dock. They’ve secluded themself on the beach, not too far from you. They sound devastated. As you draw closer, you can tell that the voice is male. Old. Warm, if ragged from tears. Familiar.

Uncle Iroh kneels where the gravel turns to sand, head in his hands, shoulders slumped. Between harsh breaths, you can hear him plead, “Not after Lu Ten...not this...I can’t take another.” He shudders, crumples in on himself. “Zuko…”

You freeze in place.

He loves you.

“Uncle?” you call before thinking, voice sounding impossibly young, lost, like a child who got separated from his parents at a festival.

He turns at the sound of your voice. For a moment he seems uncomprehending, his expression unguarded, something in it almost as young and lost as you feel. Then his eyes widen and he rushes forward, stumbling on the edge of his robes. He bundles you up in his arms. His grip on you is achingly warm, driving the chill of sea from your body. You slump into the hug, curling shaking arms around him and holding him close. Agni, he loves you. He really, really does.

“I’m sorry, I’m sorry,” you say into his shoulder, apologizing without sense. 

“I thought I lost you,” he whispers. He squeezes you a little tighter - which has the unfortunate effect of jostling your ribs.

“Ah, ow!” you hiss.

Uncle immediately loosens his grip. He holds you at arm’s length, appraising you. Tears and a bit of snot are drying on his face. Gross. He curses.

You stare at him. You don’t think you’ve ever heard him curse before.

“We need to get you to a doctor,” he says.

“Wait! Uncle, wait.” He looks up at you. “Zhao did this.”

Uncle catches on quickly, as he always does. “I see,” he says. For once, the anger in him matches yours. His grip on your shoulder tightens for a moment. “We still need to get you taken care of first. But we can be sure the doctor will be very discreet. And then we shall have a talk about Zhao.”

You nod, then say with humor you don't really feel, "Just wipe your face first. It's disgusting."


	12. ice water

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I really appreciate the nice comments I've been getting! I have trouble responding because I never know what to say, but do know that every comment makes me very happy, thank you.
> 
> Also, I realize there's a little confusion regarding what Zuko's pronouns are. Zuko hasn't been exposed to the idea of neutral pronouns yet, but while they continue to go by he/him at this point in the story, they find those pronouns uncomfortable. I refer to them by (as you can see right now) they/them pronouns, because that is what they will eventually identify with (though that won't be for a while yet). This isn't exactly canon Zuko (who I refer to with he/him pronouns, go figure), but they do share a lot of similarities and parallel paths, and a lot of the characterization I write here is close to how I imagine the canon version.
> 
> Anyway, here we begin the Siege of the North. This'll be fun.

Uncle is not happy with your plan. Truth be told, you’re not happy with your plan either. Even though it’ll take about a week to reach the North Pole, your injuries won’t be healed by then. Not even close. You wish that going into the freezing cold could wait, just until movement comes without pain. Just until the salt water won’t sting your wounds. Just until it no longer hurts to breathe.

No one other than your father has ever accused you of being lucky. But just once, you wish. Why can’t you be lucky just once?

Even though Uncle isn’t happy about it, he’s helping you. He said to you, _n_ _o nephew of mine is stowing away without some backup_. Those words, his tears the night he thought you died, his presence throughout your exile...these things send you reeling, a confused feeling of _he loves me, why does he love me?_ And then you feel ashamed of yourself for doubting him.

(But how can you not doubt?)

You rest your head against the wall. You’re hiding down by the holding cells. No one is being held right now, so no one is guarding this area. No one will come by. It’s the perfect place to stow away.

There’s just the odd irony of hiding right by where you will be imprisoned if you’re caught.

Well, unless Zhao kills you outright instead. That’s definitely possible.

You stare blearily forward at the row of cells before you. The doors darken and blur...your head falls forward...

You fall asleep, on the right side of the bars.

For now.

 

 

For the most part, the journey is uneventful. You spend most of it asleep or dozing, trying to avoid consciousness and the aching pain that comes with it. Uncle worries over you when he sees you. The armor is uncomfortable to wear constantly, but you don’t dare take it off. Yours is much too recognizable a face, unfortunately. The faceplate on the helmet narrows your field of vision, already hampered by the damage to your left eye and the swollen bruise around your right. You feel vulnerable, half-blinded like this. Uncle sneaks you rations when he can, but he isn’t exactly the most covert, so you have to go and steal them yourself. There are a couple times where you have to pretend to be a regular soldier to avoid discovery. Your decreased field of vision and the fear of being caught make you jittery during these encounters. You talk very little, hoping your smoke-scratchy voice won’t give you away. You never see anyone from your former crew. You try not to think about whether they prefer Zhao’s command.

You sleep.

 

 

It’s time.

Night has fallen; Zhao, in unusual deference to common sense and Uncle Iroh, has halted the attack for the night. This is your chance to infiltrate the Northern Water Tribe, without fear of being caught in your nation’s fire.

Still, if you are not careful, death may come by water, by ice, by blade or staff or boomerang or any number of other things. You must be careful, but you must also succeed. The Avatar - the Avatar is the only important thing. You just have to survive to take him so you can beat Zhao, bring yourself up out of disgrace, restore your honor, and go home.

Agni, home couldn’t seem further away as you gaze upon the dark, icy sea.

Uncle joins you as you complete the last of your preparations. 

“If you are fishing for an octopus, my nephew,” he says without preamble, “Then you must use a tightly woven net, lest he slip through the tiniest hole and escape.”

And how, exactly, are you meant to do that? It has always seemed to you that Uncle has an allergy to speaking plainly. When you finally understand his metaphors it’s often too little, too late. Your plan, such as it is, is already set.

“I don’t need your wisdom right now, Uncle,” you say, a little snappish.

“I’m sorry.” You can hear him take a few steps closer to you, but he stops a few feet away, just out of arm’s reach. “I just nag you because - well - ”

His voice breaks. Why is his voice breaking? You almost begin to turn, but in the end you stay motionless. You don’t know how to deal with crying.

Tears thicken his voice as he continues, “Ever since I lost my son…”

You close your eyes. You’re not sure what he feels he must say, but you are suddenly sure that his words will change something. You are afraid, almost, that what he will say will carve something emotional and deep into you, like the sort of scar you get from a knife wound, not a burn.

“Uncle,” you say to stop him, willing him to leave those words, whatever words they may be, unsaid. “You don’t need to say it.”

But he continues anyway, voice gentle, still coated with tears, “I think of you as my own. Not a son - I do know you hate the word, but my - my own.”

You can’t help but turn to look at him then. His eyes are closed, wetness on the lashes. Something in your chest aches, more than your ribs.

_My own._

You were right; his words have changed something in you, have begun some irrevocable alchemy. The lost child amazement in your chest whispers again, _he really loves me, really really,_ and finds new words now, _he knows me, he accepts me_. You don’t think you know that yet, but this is a beginning of knowing.

“I know, Uncle,” you say softly, even though you don’t think you do, yet. In the same way he says _nephew_ , you say _uncle_ with a sense of claiming, of worth, of...love. You have no idea how you deserve this. You bow to him, positioning your hands in the formal manner. “We’ll meet again.”

Uncle closes the distance between you in swift movements and hugs you tight. The way you feel in this moment - it’s a candle flame, destined to go out. But for now, for now -

You pull away. “ _After_ I have the Avatar,” you promise.

The boat wobbles a little under your weight as you step into it. You watch your uncle as you begin to winch yourself downwards. There’s concern in his face. Fear, too. “Remember your breath of fire; it could save your life out there.”

“I will,” you tell him. You slowly ease the boat downwards; he disappears from view.

“And put your hood up! Keep your ears warm!” he calls.

“I’ll be fine!” you shout back, as loud as you dare. He really does worry for you too much.

Well, at least he finally decided to speak plainly, even if it was to dispense such inane advice as to stay warm in the freezing North Pole. Really, Uncle.

Your little boat touches the water. You coil the ropes and stow them under your seat. You put up your hood, then pull up the thick cloth mask meant to keep your nose and mouth warm. It’s time to go.

 

 

Impressions of cold and pain. The freezing water makes your body feel heavy, slow. Your lungs and throat feel as if they will tear themselves apart. You need to breathe. As you reach for light, for air - your hands meet ice.

A bubble of air escapes your lips. _No, no no no no..._

You channel panic into pinpoint rage, pressing swiftly heating fingers upward. You won't let this kill you. As soon as the ice begins to melt, you break through and heave for breath.

You crawl out of the water, looking around.

You’ve come up in a tunnel somewhere in the middle of the Northern Water Tribe city. The architecture here is intricate with fine detail, but all the buildings are made of ice and you don’t appreciate it. Ah, you’re so cold. You can barely feel your shivers anymore.

You breathe small puffs of fire, hiding it with your hands so no one will see the little flashes of light. Your clothes are absolutely sodden, so you bring enough fire to steam the water out of your clothes. Even so, you still feel chilled.

You lean back against the side of the tunnel. It’s probably due to the cold, but everything feels like it hurts even more than before. Surely it would be okay if you rested here, just for a little bit. Just until you felt a little better.

Your eyes drift closed. Just for a little bit…

 _No!_ You can’t sleep here! You have to get moving. The Avatar, home, Uncle. That's what's important. You can’t let yourself fall asleep.

You stand, ignoring how much your body protests. The sky is turning gray with pre-dawn light. The sun is coming. Warmth thrums in your veins at the thought. Zhao will continue the attack soon, so you have to move quickly.

Now where might the Avatar be? He’s important to the Water Tribe, so he should be in their most important places. The grandest buildings look to be those furthest north. That’s where you’ll go.


	13. strength

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ughhhh so while it was kinda my fault, I lost some of my work on this chapter due to a computer issue, which irritated me enough to avoid it for like half a week. Anyway. Re-edited, finally posted. welp.

Your instincts prove correct: you find the Avatar in a warm, green oasis in the center of the city. You’re silent as you slip inside and hide. Even though the space is open to the freezing outside, the oasis is as pleasantly warm as a late afternoon sun. You can feel your muscles relax, just a little.

The Avatar is meditating. His eyes and tattoos glow with a cool white light. It’s a bit creepy - it reminds you of the Avatar state that he attacked your ship with, way back when you first found him. Terrifying, overwhelming power, incongruous with the boy himself - no wonder your father wants him out of the way. If the Avatar got really serious about attacking the Fire Nation, that could end the war. Then the other nations would rip the Fire Nation to shreds.

There are two girls here with the Avatar. One has white hair even though her face is young, and the other is the waterbender girl he's been traveling with. You still don’t know her name. She’s saying something about how the Avatar has crossed into the Spirit World, how he’ll be able to return if they don’t move his body. That’s perfect for you - as you are right now, you have no chance at beating the Avatar in a fight. If he’s already unconscious, your life is that much simpler.

You half-listen to their quiet conversation as you weigh your options. You could demand that they hand him over, but the waterbender girl would never let you take him without a fight. You are stronger than her, but you feel apprehensive about any fight right now. It was hard enough achieving the lightness of step and grace of movement needed to move like a spirit and sneak your way here. You press a hand to your side, to where your ribs ache fiercely. The harsh, strong movements of firebending - you want to avoid those until you absolutely have to bend.

You hear the waterbender girl say, “I am perfectly capable of protecting him.”

 _Well, aren’t we a big girl now_ , you think nastily. How _nice_ for her to be able to speak with such easy confidence. Agni, that irritates you.

Her attitude rattles you a little bit, if you're absolutely honest with yourself. You really,  _really_ don't want to fight right now. You think about spirits, how your spirit-walk requires misdirection and good timing. You need a distraction.

The mysterious oasis is located in what you might call a canyon if it were made of stone. Great walls of ice tower over the pool of water and its small island of green. This place feels special somehow, some odd energy vibrating in the air. You feel a little sick at thought of damaging it. But you _need_ to capture the Avatar. One strange, warm place in enemy territory should not stand in the way of your goals.

It can't. You won't let it.

You close your eyes, concentrating.

You let yourself sink into rage. You think of the waterbender’s confidence, how that reminds you of Azula’s strength and your weakness. You think of your failures. You think of your father’s expression as his palm lit with fire and he reached for your skin. You think of Zhao, how he got in your way again and again, how he tried to kill you, how he drove you to this. You think of yourself, who wanted to let Uncle be rent with grief by a love you don’t deserve, who never lets yourself care about what is ruined in your wake, who can’t be what you’re supposed to be.

The first rays of sun touch your skin.

Your eyes snap open. With a roar, you send a massive fireball up the side of the wall. The ice cracks; great chunks of it rain down. The waterbender girl is forced to focus on protecting herself, the other girl, and the Avatar on her own.

The white-haired girl shouts that she’ll go get help and dashes off to do so. You are left alone with the waterbender girl and the Avatar. You begin to make your way toward them. The girl hasn’t seen you yet - all of her focus is on diverting the chunks of ice that continue to fall. Even so, you don't have much time.

As you draw closer, you have to be careful yourself. You have to keep an eye out for the larger pieces so you can dodge them, and you let enough heat radiate off your body to melt any of the smaller, lighter shards.

It isn’t until you have made it to the oasis and your fingers are on the Avatar’s collar that the waterbender girl notices you. “Zuko!” she cries.

She throws one of the ice chunks at you, but the sun is with you now and you blast it to the side. You direct another fire blast at her. Too distracted still, she only manages a weak shield and is slammed back into the gate pole behind her. 

She doesn't move.

Your breath catches in your throat. You kneel by her, fingers hovering above her skin, not quite touching. She’s unconscious. There's no blood or anything, so she'll probably be fine. Probably.

You look upwards. All the large pieces of ice appear to have fallen already. You don’t think she’ll be hurt if left here. You consider dragging her out of the oasis and to sure safety, but you decide against it. You don’t have the time.

You just don’t want anyone’s death to be your fault.

Whatever. She’s not important right now; only the Avatar is. You step toward him, every moment fearing he'll wake up and send you flying with his airbending. You don't think your body could take that much abuse right now. But he doesn't move, even when you grab his arms and tighten your grip to bruising strength. You heave him onto your back. Despite his rigid posture, he's quite limp and easy to maneuver.

So you've captured the Avatar. Where to now?

You can’t go back into the city now, so the only way out is up. You adjust your grip on him and begin to make the trek.

 

 

Much like your infiltration into the city, your escape with the Avatar is cold, painful, and hard. Frost forms on your eyelashes. The ache in your ribs becomes sharp, like a knife. Each breath is disconcertingly shallow. With every step, the Avatar seems to grow heavier and heavier. It’s a relief to find shelter from the blizzard.

You drop the Avatar to the ground with an exhausted groan. You roll your shoulders a few times, assessing him. He's still glowing, which is no less unsettling. If the waterbender girl was right, the Avatar likely won't wake up. Something about not finding his way back from the Spirit World...also creepy, but useful for today. Still, you bind his limbs with rope, just to be sure.

Inside the cave is not really any warmer than outside of it, but it does cut the wind chill. It's empty; you don't think anything has lived her for a long time. Actually, what even lives up here? Something has to, or the Northern Water Tribe would have starved a long time ago.

It doesn't matter. Nothing is right here, right now, so you don't need to think about it.

Your fingers feel like they're carved from ice. You rub them, looking around. The cave has little in the way of anything flammable. Fortunately, there is some old plant matter: a dried old vine, a bit of wood. Even so, you have to give up some of your rope in order to build a small fire. It starts quickly, but without more material it won't last for very long. 

You sit by the Avatar, breathing fire to warm your fingers. You wish you could sleep; you’re rapidly losing strength. The longer it takes before the blizzard stops, the harder it’ll be to get back. You hope you’ll be able to get moving soon.

You turn your head and watch the Avatar continue to meditate. His breaths are slow and steady, his features relaxed but oddly solemn. You've seen him cheery, angry, morose, upset, but never so still. It's a bit uncomfortable.

It strikes you as a bizarre reversal of the time he sat by you after you rescued him. You wonder if you’ll talk with him again if, when he wakes. 

_If we knew each other back then, do you think we could be friends too?_

_Kuzon wasn’t a boy either. Zuko, are you a spirit person?_

It doesn’t matter. It doesn't matter. You don't _care_ if he wants to talk to you or not, if he still has that stupid fucking idea of being  _friends_ in his stupid little head anymore or not. Your goal is unchanged; you are going to bring him back to the Fire Nation and end this miserable exile.

You stand up and walk over to the cave mouth, impatient. “I finally have you, but I can’t bring you back because of this damn blizzard." You scowl. "There’s always something.”

You glance back at him, then away. 

“Always something,” you repeat vaguely, looking down at yourself. The hard, flat lines of your body are obscured and softened by the thick clothing you’re wearing. Your hands clench. There are a lot of things you want right now, but foremost right now is the wish that your body wouldn't hurt so much. You were able to get this far, but getting back like this will be tough.

And for all that effort, you can’t even get back to the Fire Nation.

In a sharper tone, you say, “Not that you would understand. You’re like my sister. Everything always came easy to her. She always knew who she was. A firebending prodigy, everyone adores her. My father says she was born lucky, and I was lucky to be born.” The words still sting. You clutch the fabric of your pants in your fists. “I don’t need luck though,” you spit. “I - I don’t want it. I’ve always had to struggle and fight, I’ve _always_ had to push past my weakness and my wrongness, and that’s made me strong.”

You turn back to the fire, to the Avatar.

“That’s made me who I am.”

You sit across from him and settle in to wait.

 

 

Hours pass.

You keep an eye on his unmoving body. It’s like being near a corpse, he’s so still. Only his slow breaths let you know he’s still alive.

You yourself are caught between motion and stillness: motion, because it keeps you warm, and stillness, because it spares you a small measure of pain. You alternate between sitting and frustrated, impatient pacing. You wander over to the entrance again and glare at the snow still blowing past. Why won't this blasted storm let up already? You feel trapped, strained. You clench and unclench your fists.

Suddenly, a flash of light! You hear the Avatar inhale sharply. You blink rapidly, attempting to dispel the light-blindness from your vision. Once you can see again, you check on the Avatar again. He's awake. _Before_ the weather has cleared. Shit. That’ll make things harder.

“Welcome back,” you say as he sits up. “You’ve been quiet.”

You say that, wondering silently,  _why have you stayed quiet?_

He glares at you. He seems angrier than is the norm for him. Not like he actually likes you, no matter that friend crap he spouted at you before. But still...oh, he probably thinks you’re with Zhao on this attack. Zhao's invasion mirrors on a far grander, far more aggressive scale what you did with the Southern Water Tribe. Of course he thinks you’re partially responsible.

A part of you wants to tell him otherwise. A part of you wants to talk to him, to understand why he hasn’t told anyone about your gender. A part of you wants to ask _why_ , why did he talk about friendship with you when you had already attacked him several times.

He certainly doesn’t want to talk about friendship now.

“It’s good to be back,” he retorts. He inhales - you have just enough time to think _oh no_ before a blast of air throws you backwards and propels him out of the cave. You smash back into the cave wall. Oh _fuck_ , fuck - it's hard to breathe. Have your ribs cracked further? That little brat! You groan and go after him.

Just outside, he’s wriggling away like a worm, moving quickly but not quickly enough. You stomp over and grab him by the collar. "That won’t be enough to escape,” you growl at him, pulling his face close.

But he looks beyond you as if you aren’t important and grins a big soppy grin. “Appa!” he cries.

You curse as, sure enough, the damn flying bison lands by you. The waterbender girl slides off its back. You see her thunderous expression and feel the situation slipping further out of control. Shit, shit, shit. The sky is already dark and every movement hurts. You don't know what to do. Lucky to be born and nothing else. You can't stop here. You can't. You have to win. You have to. Your grip tightens on the Avatar’s clothes, but then you toss him to the side. You won’t be able to fight while holding him. 

“I won’t let you get to him!” you shout, loud with the anger-fear of a corned, injured animal. Which, in a way, is what you are.

“Trust me, Zuko,” she says, arms already moving in the fluid motions of waterbending. “It won’t be hard.”

You throw fire at her, but despite your anger, you don’t have much strength. Your flames cause barely any of her water shield to dissipate. The girl pushes forward and the water moves with her. It catches you, lobs you up in the air, and then hard ice smashes you down to earth again.

Your head - something snaps.

You just barely have time to think  _I’m really going to die out here_ before the universe spirals away from you and your vision grows dark.

You're not even afraid, anymore.


	14. red sky

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> red sky at morning, sailor take warning
> 
> ....anyway, I drove cross country from Los Angeles to DC, so I am tired as hell. I had some dissociation issues last week too, which I think I projected on this chapter a little bit. I've never been knocked unconscious by injury so I was really just making things up a bit.
> 
> Btw, classes start tomorrow and I have an internship interview on Wednesday, so updates will likely get even more inconsistent, though I'm a bit of a procrastinator and I like to write fic when procrastinating, so...
> 
> (also, finally!! fuck Zhao.)

Movement. Half-familiar voices. The Avatar, his two traveling companions, the other girl. 

You vaguely wonder why they didn’t leave you to die. 

It’s what they should have done. 

Don’t they know you’ll only come after them again?

You sink into darkness again. Just like slipping underwater. Simple, easy.

You resurface, achingly slow.

Stillness. The voices are distant. 

Waking from unconsciousness is a disjointed process. Even now awake, you feel incomplete.

There’s a dizzying disorientation that you never feel when you wake from sleep. As a firebender, you naturally wake at dawn. The sun is energy; as soon as it rises you’re up, and as soon as its light touches your skin, you are alert. Powerful, even.

There have been exceptions. When your father burned you, you slept too much for weeks. When you returned to the ship after Blue Spirit nights, it was difficult to have your shit together in the morning.

But even then, you didn’t feel like this.

You are so fucking tired. Agni, you’re so tired you almost want to die.

You open your good eye, just a little, and peer around. 

No one is nearby but - 

Everything is tinted red. What - ?

At first you think it might be blood from the swelling, so you ease open your other eye. Its vision is hazy as usual, adding that odd soft layer to your sight that you’ve had to grow accustomed to. Even so, you still only see red. It’s not blood, it’s the light. What in the world could do this? Some spirit?

You shiver.

Something feels really, really wrong. You suddenly feel very uncomfortable in your skin, like you're all sharp, jagged edges inside. Like someone replaced your bones with knives and your guts with glass. (Is that how Azula feels, all sharp inside?)

Maybe it's worse that you're alone. Even if it was the Avatar or one of his friends, at least you'd know that you hadn't slipped into some awful part of the Spirit World or something.

You definitely don't want to be here anymore. You tug at your bonds. They bound your wrists and ankles with your own damn rope, apparently not realizing that binding a firebender with flammable rope is useless.

That spark of irritation gives you the energy needed to burn off the rope on your wrists. Then you bring a hand over to burn the rope off your ankles as well. Newly freed, you peer over the edge of the saddle...basket... _ thing _ the bison wears.

You catch a glimpse of people - the Avatar and his group - Zhao - Uncle - just as there is a sudden flash of flame and all the light in the world goes out.

You blink a few times, unsure of what you saw. Maybe you  _ are _ in the Spirit World. Maybe you’re dead. Maybe you’re dreaming.

Someone is shouting, but you can’t make out the words or recognize the voice. Or is it multiple voices?

Flashes of light, of fire. As fractured and bright as lightning strikes.

You feel sick, shaky, wrong. Not really different from before, just worse.

You have to get out of here. Now’s your chance. You have to go while they’re all distracted.

You grip the edge of the saddle-basket for a moment before vaulting over and sliding down the bison’s side, on the side away from the commotion. The beast startles. You take another moment to press a hand to your ribs before running.

The weird oasis again. Is it following you?

What a stupid thought.

As soon as you’re outside of the oasis again, you press yourself against a wall to catch your breath. You look upwards.

It feels as if the world has shifted out from under your feet; you’re shaking. You never knew before that the moon could be snuffed out like a candle.

Sound. Footsteps, running. You turn and see - 

“Zhao,” you whisper. The name tastes like bile.

You chase him. 

Your whole body hurts, but you feel it only distantly. Your mind and your body feel disconnected. Limbs and heart and blood move but it all feels like it belongs to someone else. You still half-think you’re dreaming. You still half-think you're dead.

Your arm thrusts forward; a wave of fire cuts off Zhao’s path. He turns. The movement seems jittery, fragmented. You see the horror, the surprise, the rage come upon his face in stages.

You hear him - you  _ think  _ you hear him - say, "You're alive?"

You have enoughenergy in you to feel anger. Righteous. “You tried to have me killed!” you roar, flames eating your insides. 

You attack.

The fight, like everything else, is built of broken moments. Zhao’s expression, contorted by his fear and rage, as he calls you a traitor, as he calls you the Blue Spirit. You remember, you remember the Agni Kai, Zhao as he tried to burn you, your father as he burned you, your uncle as he saved you. 

His eyes, hard and cold like obsidian, the flame reflected in them. The ocean, black. Smoke, flesh burning. You had no choice, you had no choice. Despite everything, you are your father's son. You are a failure, a disgrace, Zhao tells you. He's right, you know that.

But if you accept that, you’ll die.

“If you had, then, at least, you could have lived!” Zhao screams at you in answer.

The darkness is lit by flashes of light, gold on your skin, red on Zhao’s hair. Attack, counterattack. Movement, abrupt, forceful. Hard. Your father’s eyes as he burned you. 

Suddenly, the harsh warmth of fire-light is drowned by silver. You both pause, look upward. The moon glows, round and full, so bright it devoids the sky of stars.

Zhao falters. 

“It can’t be, it can’t be!”

He steps back, away from you, hands reaching upwards, grasping, searching for something. You don’t understand. Your fingers curl into fists again. You tense, ready to resume the fight. Zhao continues to rave. You step forward, already beginning to swing into another attack form.

The ocean surges forth and takes him. Zhao doesn't cry out. You think he should. It seems odd, the silence. You still aren’t sure you’re awake.

But then he meets your gaze.

“Take my hand!” you cry, desperate. You're not sure why you care so much. But even Zhao you don't want to see die, especially not by something as deeply feared by every firebender as drowning.

Zhao's expression is unguarded for a moment. He's terrified. You think he's going to take your hand. But then you can see the shift from terror to hate, to disgust. 

He pulls his hand back, out of reach.

The water swallows him, but you can still see his eyes, can see his loathing in them, can see the worthlessness he sees in you. You stare back at him, transfixed.

And then you watch the water crush him.

He's dead.

Zhao got in your way multiple times, tried to hurt you many more times, and tried to kill you at least twice. You hated him about as much as you've ever hated anyone.

And now he's gone.

You stand still, as if frozen, your hand still held out for him to take. After a long moment, your arm falls to your side.  _ It's over, _ you think.

Then another water-hand rises out of the ocean, blood swirling inside it. Agni, it's reaching for  _ you _ . 

You scramble backwards, backpedaling wildly until your back hits the far railing of the bridge. The hand draws closer. You can't breathe. 

It comes closer, closer.

Please no, please no.

You tremble.

_ Please don't let it drown me and crush me like Zhao, oh Agni please. _

The hand brushes the side of your face, almost gentle, almost soft like a caress, freezing cold even when touching the deadened tissue of your scar.

_ You nearly destroyed our sacred place,  _ the Ocean Spirit whispers. Its voice is great, and dark, and deep. You hear no sunlight in its voice. No moonlight, either.  _ For that, a warning. _

The hand slips down to your throat, tightens its grip there for a moment. You wait for it to snap your neck.

But the hand withdraws.

Moonlight spills silvery light onto the ice again. The ocean calms. The oppressive sense of malevolence in the air dissipates. It's truly over now.

It's over.

You wrap your arms around yourself and sink against the railing-wall of the bridge, all the fight in you spent.

It's over.


	15. ash

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Oh my god, Kubo is so good, you guys. Go see itttt!!
> 
> Also I got the internship! I'm combo excited/terrified, eek.

Color and light has returned. And yet - 

You move as if in a dream, fading into the shadows, hiding from fleeing Fire Nation and fearful Water Tribe. You lose moments - when did you get here? Weren’t you - where - 

Uncle?

Where is he?

You need to find him. You have to, where  _ is _ he, you suddenly feel so overwhelmed, how did you get here - 

“Prince Zuko!”

The whisper seems piercingly loud in - not silence, it isn’t silence - in the confusing, distant babble of Water Tribe voices. You turn. The motion seems at once slow and too fast. You see - 

Uncle, like an anchor, a still point in a swiftly tilting world. His expression is concerned, and relieved. You wonder if you look the same. You’re sure you do.

“We need to leave,” you tell him.

“You will get no argument from me, my nephew,” he says, a hint of a smile glimmering behind his serious face. “I’ve even procured us a means, come.”

You follow. Each step feels harder than the last, and each moment continues to seem vague and unconnected. But you follow, keeping your gaze locked on his steadily receding back.

 

 

The raft is small and unprotected from the elements, foremost of which is either ice water or bitter wind. It rocks beneath your feet. Even as used to ships as you have become, you find the movement unsettling. Perhaps it is because the raft is so small. 

Between the ice and the clouds, the sea is blindingly bright.  You close your eyes.

“I’m surprised, Prince Zuko, that you are not at this moment attempting to capture the Avatar,” Uncle says.

The Avatar. 

You haven’t thought about him for - you don’t know how long it’s been since you chased after Zhao.

_ The Ocean Spirit touches your skin with a freezing hand _ …

You shudder.

“I’m tired,” you say, honestly. Your shoulders slump, just a little, and you let yourself sink to sitting on the floor of the raft.

You hear Uncle come up behind you, so you don’t startle when he settles a warm, heavy hand on your shoulder. He feels real. He’s real. “Then you should rest, Zuko,” he says softly. “Even spirits rest, and you are only human.”

His hand falls away, and you feel detached again. You should rest, yeah. Maybe you’ll feel better then. You lie down. For a moment, you don’t even realize your eyes are open until they begin to hurt with the cold and the whiteness. You close them again. 

You see the Avatar’s expression when he woke and saw you. How he despised you. You know he does, you could see it then. In the curl of his mouth, the angle of his eyebrows, the odd shadows in his eyes. (So like Zhao, before he died.) If a look could have killed you, the Avatar’s would have.

And that’s fine. That’s how it should be. You _are_ his enemy, after all.

You fold an arm over your eyes. The weight is soothing. 

“He didn’t want to talk to me this time,” you murmur.

“What? Did you say something?”

“Nothing."

You’re tired.

You sleep.

 

 

Waking, sleeping, waiting.

Uncle grows thinner. You grow thinner.

You had thought your time on your ship had made you sick of the sight of water. But now you know that you had just been sick of the ship then. Now you’re truly sick and fearful of the ocean.

You grow stronger and weaker at the same time. Your injuries heal as dehydration and starvation catch up to you. You keep dreaming of cold hands, of Zhao, of the Avatar. Tension thrums within your heart like a string plucked on a guqin; you stare into the water and wait for it to swallow you.

You’re useless. Uncle somehow pulls together drops of water, fish sometimes. You don’t know how he does it. You don’t pay attention. You pay attention to very little, now.

You’re never going to make it back to land. You’re never going home. You’re never going to feel warm again, you’re never...

You look upon the sea and despair.

 

 

Sudden weight shakes you; you startle awake with a gasp. You lash out with fire before thinking about it, only realizing it is Uncle who woke you a second too late. A sick feeling lurches in your gut. You cry out, but Uncle simply uses an odd flowing motion to dispel the blast. You are relieved that he isn’t hurt but also -

"I’m sorry, Uncle, oh Agni, I’m so sorry,” you babble, holding out your hands in an almost pleading manner. “I’m sorry - ”

He stops you with a raised hand. “No, it is I who is sorry. I did not realize - I will endeavor in the future not to startle you so, my nephew.”

You just shake your head and try to get your breath back under control. You remember a similar moment, years ago, around when you were first exiled, when you lashed out at him. That concerned look is back on his face again. You wish you didn’t make him look like that. You don’t want him to be concerned about you, not when you did something stupid, not when you  _ attacked  _ him…

“But Zuko, I woke you to show you something that will make you feel better,” Uncle says, flashing a grin at you. You just blink at him, caught a little off guard by the joy that suddenly radiates off him. “Look!” he tells you, pointing behind you.

You look. 

“Land,” you breathe.

You’re not sure you feel better, exactly, but the odd, surreal lethargy that has pervaded the last few weeks lifts, just a little. At last, you can feel the sun on your skin. 

It’s warm.

 

 

It takes another day to reach the shore. For the first time since the beginning of your exile, you stumble when you first set foot on solid land again. Uncle doesn’t laugh at you. He barely acts like he sees, instead going on theatrically about his sore muscles and all the dishes he can’t wait to eat again.

You don’t quite smile, but it’s good to hear him talk like this again. Neither of you spoke much during your time on the raft. You had been too tired, he had been unable to keep up his usual cheer, and both of you had been trying to conserve water. Distantly, you had worried that Uncle had given up too.

No, you didn’t give up. You  _ can’t _ give up. You have to keep going.

But why does that seem so much harder than before?

Still, you’ve returned to land, and that is the first step to anything. 

You’ll be okay.

 

 

Uncle manages to discern that you are in Fire Nation-controlled territory within the Earth Kingdom, and procures new, clean clothes, baths, medicinal tea, and food with remarkable efficiency. Time still feels disjointed, so you watch him work with a bit of awe. You’ve never understood how well Uncle can interact with people. Anyone, of equal class or lower, even of different nations, he sets them at ease and makes them want to help him.

It’s amazing. You have no idea how he does it. You definitely can’t; even when you’re making your best efforts (which, admittedly, you rarely do anymore) you always seem to make people upset with you. Then they react poorly, and you react poorly to their reactions, and it just all goes to Koh's lair in a heartbeat.

Neither you nor Uncle are terribly neat as you eat. You both do know to pace yourselves, but that’s hard when you’re ravenous. You know you're being sloppy. You can tell that the restaurant staff is a little disgusted. Usually you would care about how they view you, but you’ve just starved for some time, so you can’t bring yourself to give a flying mole-rat’s ass.

Speaking of, how long did it take to get back to shore?

You pause to ask one of the waiters what the date is. His eyebrows draw together sharply.

Before he can respond, Uncle breaks in helpfully, “My nephew and I have just been on a terribly long journey, you see. We’ve gotten a bit turned around as to what day it is.”

The waiter no longer looks quite so consternated. Honestly, you have no idea how Uncle does it. You don’t think you could imitate his (weird, old mannish) charm in a thousand years.

With an ingratiating smile, the waiter says, “Of course, of course, gentle sirs. It is the ninth day of the second month.”

And just with that short sentence, your appetite dies. You push your plate away, feeling sick and bloated with what you’ve just eaten. That day already?

As if underwater, you hear Uncle’s voice, cheery, distorted, as he says, “The ninth day, you say! Why, that means we spent three weeks and a day or two on the sea.”

You stand abruptly, head spinning. The ninth day of the second month. You’ll never forget.

_Your father’s expression as he reached down, down, down towards you, his palm burning, his fingers alight, the light flashing in his eyes, the hard line of his mouth…_

You flee outside.

Today is the third anniversary of your exile. Your father scarred you and banished you exactly three years ago today. Three full years. After today, your fourth year in exile will begin.

Pain flashes through your knees as you drop to the ground. You don’t throw up. You don’t.

Uncle comes up behind you. “Nephew,” he says quietly, “Why don’t you come with me and we can have some tea?”

You don’t answer. After a long moment, he sighs and kneels beside you.

“Go away,” you growl. He stays anyway. After another too-long lingering moment, he places his hand on your spine and begins to rub soothing circles into your back.

You shrug him off harshly. “Just _go!_ ”

He doesn’t touch you again, but he doesn’t leave. You press a sweaty hand to your mouth, trying to ride out the nauseous feeling. Maybe it would be better if you just threw up now and got it over with.

Maybe it would be better if you just died.

Agni, where do you _get_ these thoughts from sometimes? It’s not like you actually _want_ to die.

It’s just –

You don’t know. You don’t want to think about this.

“Please come,” Uncle says, interrupting your thoughts. His voice is even softer than before. You shut your eyes. You don’t want to look at him. You don’t want to see his expression. You don’t want to remember your father’s anymore. “It would do you good.”

“ _No_ , it _won’t_ ,” you grumble.

And isn’t it always like this? Uncle always tries to help you, and you always spurn him and refuse him until he finally decides to leave you alone.

But he doesn’t leave. Instead, he jokes gently, “You should listen to me! I am old and therefore very wise.”

You wish he would leave, but you also want him to stay. You struggle with yourself for a bit, but then the desire for him to stay with you wins out. You push yourself to respond to him in kind: “I’m not sure that follows,” you respond stiffly, many beats too late, without the lightness of a true joke.

He chuckles. The sound is oddly scratchy, the result of too long with a dry throat and without laughter. He stands and brushes off the dust from the edge of his robe. “Come,” he says again.

You stand, finally, and join him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The guqin (古琴) is a seven-stringed Chinese instrument, and I think generally when people think of Chinese music, it is one of the prominent instruments. Considering the Chinese influence on the Fire Nation, it seemed like an appropriate mention! (Is my study of China showing?)
> 
> For the date, I just chose something that seemed like it could be approx. three weeks after the siege of the north, so mid-winter or so.


	16. ember

You follow Uncle around for the rest of the day. Though you are no longer caught in the feeling of being in a dream, you feel out of step, out of sync. You are uncomfortably introspective.

Uncle keeps trying to catch your interest in frivolous things: drinking tea, admiring calligraphy, getting a massage. You absolutely refuse to have any part in the last, and take up a spot on the ground by the gate. You stare, almost sightlessly, at the way the light plays on your hands, catching on your bones and the hollows between your knuckles.

You _are_ trying, but you can’t stop thinking. A small part of you, a childish, stupid part of you, keeps crying, _this isn’t fair! This isn’t just! My father shouldn’t have hurt me! He shouldn’t have exiled me!_

You grit your teeth, disgusted with yourself. Your father was completely within his rights as, well, your father and as the fire lord. _You_ disgraced _him_. It was _your_ own foolish actions that brought dishonor upon you and your family, that cost you everything, that caused all of this. If you hadn’t been so stupid, or so arrogant, or so damned _weak_ , then your father wouldn’t have banished you.

You have no one to blame but yourself.

The old, familiar anger nestles inside your chest again. You welcome it back. Anger, as ugly and awful as it is, is much better than the slow apathy that has been drowning you for – it has been creeping in for months really, not just a few weeks. But the anger is back now. And with it, your determination to capture to Avatar and reclaim all you lost returns: your honor, your throne, your family, your home.

It _will_ all be yours again.

“I see. It’s the anniversary, isn’t it?”

You look up as Uncle sits by you again. He seems to have decided that he can’t leave you alone for too long today. He makes sure to check in periodically, every half hour or so. Only now does he finally acknowledge that today is the anniversary of your greatest mistakes.

(And you’ve only made more since.)

“Three years ago today, I was banished,” you confirm, not quite able to own up to him about your fault in the matter. No matter how frustrated you get with yourself, you draw the line at expressing that to others, even if it’s Uncle. Besides, he already knows that it’s all because you fucked up.

With growing vehemence, you go on, “I lost it all. I want it _back_. I want the Avatar, I want my honor, my throne.” Your breath hitches before you continue, “I want my father not to think I’m worthless.”

You can’t help but see his expression again, dark, as he leaned forward, fire in his hand, just before he pressed his palm to your face and you - burned.

Zhao had a similar expression in his final moments.

No, you can’t think about that right now. Your father is not Zhao. He is nothing like Zhao. You just have to complete your quest, you just have to fix everything, and your father will care about you again. He will love you again. You’ll be okay then.

But until you succeed, he will continue to believe that you are worthless, and he would be right.

“I’m sure he doesn’t!” Uncle cries. “Why would he banish you if he didn't care?”

You feel suddenly as if you are down in the waters of the freezing North again. It’s a struggle to breathe.

You thought Uncle got it. You thought he understood you. You thought –

Stupid, what _did_ you think?

_Stupid!_

You don’t want to be here. You don’t want to deal with this. You don’t want to end up yelling at him.

For the second time in a single day, you run.

Uncle doesn’t call after you this time.

When you fucked up, your father didn’t care about you anymore. That was your fault. Fathers who care about their children _do_ punish them, but they don’t - they don’t -

Does Uncle think that if your father didn’t care about you, he would have killed you? That would have been kinder than _this_.

If Uncle’s right, and your father cares about you right now and still did this to you, then there’s nothing you can do. You can’t win his love back if you already have it. And if this is his love, if banishment is how your father shows he cares about you, then, then -

No, that can’t be right. That can’t be right. It can’t. It can’t.

_You’re_ wrong. You’re the reason he doesn’t love you. It’s because everything in you is wrong. You can’t stop making mistakes. You haven’t succeeded in capturing the Avatar, can’t succeed in the _one_ thing your father has asked you to do. You aren’t a very good firebender, you aren’t particularly smart, you rely on swords to fight because that’s the only way you can get an edge on anyone.

You can’t even be your father’s _son_.

If it is your very existence that is wrong, then you have to prove that you can be better than what you are. You have to be better. There’s no other choice.

…to think you thought Uncle actually _accepted_ you. Really, all this time, he was enabling your weakness. What does he think that is? Is that his idea of _caring_?

If encouraging weakness is love, then you want no part of it.


	17. knife

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ahhhh I really wanted to get this chapter out sooner, but life has very much conspired against me on that front. Unfortunately, chapters are definitely gonna take much longer now because between school, internship, keeping up with RuPaul's Drag Race, and trying to maintain some resemblance of sanity - this story has to take a bit of a hit timing-wise. Anyway, slightly longer chapter than normal, yay
> 
> Much more positive note! So this story has just broken the 100 kudos mark which, like, wow, is the most of anything I've posted here. It's really gratifying to know that so many have liked this story enough to want to let me know - especially because this is kinda a niche interpretation (okay...it's very much a nice interpretation, I think I've seen maybe one other discussion of nb Zuko??) and also for a story that has no romance or sex in it, which are generally the stories people go for. So yeah, thank you so much for the support!
> 
> Also get ready, cause this chapter is a bit of a wild ride..

Not even an hour has passed before Uncle seeks you out again. He’s oddly cautious about it, like he’s approaching an animal that might bite him if he moves wrong. Something in you prickles at this, like a porcupine cat has curled up inside your chest.

You don’t smile at him as he greets you. Not like you usually smile anyway but…

You’ve gotten a bit cold again. You can’t get a handle on your emotions. You still feel volatile, a little liable to explode. You feel like breaking things, just to prove you can. Just to show Uncle that  _ this _ is what he has cared for all this time. 

But honestly, your upset at Uncle has cooled, hardened like a volcanic rock. You’re all obsidian and porcu-cat quills inside. 

You do still love him. You care about Uncle deeply, and you want him to be safe, to be happy. He’s your uncle. You love him.

But you...you don’t quite trust him anymore.

_ Why would he banish you if he didn’t care? _

Distantly, you know that Uncle didn’t really mean that in a bad way. You just took it wrong. You do that a lot. You don’t think he would mean to say that your father banished you  _ because  _ he loved you. Uncle always treats love as this great, good thing. He wouldn’t mean to say that love is what has punished you so harshly.

Would he?

Half the time, you’re amazed enough that Uncle loves you. But if this is what he thinks love is, if he thinks to love is to hurt you and to let you continue to be  _ wrong _ , then - then - 

If your father, acting out of love, burned you and banished you, then - 

You don’t want to think about this anymore. 

 

 

You continue to follow Uncle around for the rest of the day, but your patience has worn far beyond thin. At every provocation, you can’t help but snap at him. Usually you would feel awful about it. But right now, you take a little bit of vindictive pleasure in it, in how his face falls, in how the lines around his eyes tighten. Beneath the pleasure, you do feel ashamed, but every time he looks at you, you remember what he said about your father, about love.

_ Why would he banish you if he didn't _   _care?_

Right now, Uncle sorts through the small multitude of seashells in your room. He grins at you, cheeks still ruddy from weeks in the Northern sun. There's a slight hesitance to his smile, but you pretend not to notice.

“Look at these magnificent shells!” he exclaims. He shows you one. It is pale, delicate, curved. It reminds you of an ear. You kinda want to shatter it. But you don’t want to hurt him, not really. And to break the shell in front of him would just be thoughtlessly cruel. Uncle looks back down at the rest of his seashells. “I’ll enjoy these keepsakes for years to come.”

Agni, does he  _ not _ understand the situation you’re now in? 

“We don't need any more useless things!” you hiss. “We’ve lost our ship and crew, thanks to Zhao. You forget, we have to carry everything ourselves now!”

Fat sparks drip off your fingers. Maybe your anger wasn’t as quieted as you thought.

Uncle's expression, he looks - 

“Hello, brother. Uncle.”

You whirl around.

Who - ?

In the far corner of the room, there’s a girl sitting at the table. She’s smiling. The darkness of her hair, the slant of her eyes, the richness of her clothes…

She's Azula. Your sister. 

You remember her laughter as your father burned you. 

“What are you doing here?” you demand.

The smile drops from her face. She scowls, an expression very like your own. She glances away, picking up a shell and fiddling with it.

“In my country,” she says, laying just the barest emphasis on the word  _ my _ , “we exchange a pleasant hello before asking questions.”

You bristle. The Fire Nation is  _ still _ your country, even if you haven’t been permitted to set foot on Fire Nation soil for three years now. Before you can shout at her, she rises and swiftly walks over to you. She steps too close, but you don’t move back. This close you can see how smooth her skin is, not made rough by wind or sun or salt water.

In that saccharine, almost simpering voice you forgot you hated, Azula asks, “Have you gotten so uncivilized so soon, Zuzu?”

“Don’t call me that!” you snap back, without thinking. You hate that fucking name. It’s what an adult might call a small child. Your sister though, your  _ younger _ sister, who’s always been better than you -

Azula smiles, and it’s like a knife, sly and slick and honed to a keen edge.

Before she can say anything else, Uncle interrupts, “To what do we owe this honor?”

“Hmm...must be a family trait,” she says, with her voice going suddenly harsh. “Always so eager to get to the  _ point _ .”

She crushes the seashell in her hand. You can feel Uncle shift behind you. Thoughtless cruelty. Uncle has never cared for wanton destruction, and he had liked that shell.

“I come with a message from home,” Azula continues. “Father’s changed his mind. Family is suddenly...very important to him. He’s heard rumors of plans to overthrow him, treacherous plots. Family are the only ones you can really trust.”

_ Family are the only ones you can really _   _trust._

You think of Uncle, and you think of what he thinks of you, of your punishment.

No, you don't know.

 

Azula’s voice goes as soft as you’ve ever heard it as she says, “Father regrets your banishment. He wants you home.”

Are you dreaming?

You - you have to be dreaming. Three years, and now he wants you home?

_ Father's changed his mind. Father regrets your banishment. He wants you home. _

Home.

You want - you want to go home  _so badly_.

Azula seems fed up with your silence. She says sharply, the edges of her voice no longer dulled, “Did you hear me? You should be happy. Excited. Grateful. I just gave you great news.” On the words  _ great news _ her voice is soft and sweet again, like she just drank a jar of honey.

You step away and look out the window. The leaves, the cherry blossoms...they seem so bright now. You hadn’t even seen before. 

Behind you, Uncle says, “I’m sure your brother only needs a moment.”

Your gut clenches a little. Brother.  _Brother_. A word like  _son_ , like  _prince_ , like  _boy_ , like  _man_...

You should have seen this coming. Haven’t you already noticed? Uncle really - he really doesn’t understand you at all.

And your father…

“Father...regrets? He - he wants me back?” you ask the sudden silence. 

You sound like a child.

“I can see you need some time to take this in.” Azula sounds distinctly unimpressed. She speaks quickly, all her words clipped and bit off at the consonants, “I’ll come to call on you tomorrow. Good evening.”

And she’s gone, as suddenly as she appeared.

You feel dizzy, untethered even though now you should feel the call of home ever stronger.

Your father...wants you home.

Even with everything that you are, every weakness you have, every failure, every mistake, every wrongness in you.

Even so, he wants you back.

He wants you back.

He regrets banishing you. He regrets hurting you. He really, truly loves you.

That’s all you had wanted.

You aren’t sure how much time has passed, but when you start to pay attention to the world again, the sky has grown dark. It’s night.

Uncle is sitting at the table, in the same seat where Azula sat, just a handful of hours ago. The shells are still laid out on the table, but he isn’t looking at them anymore. Instead, he has a cup of tea in his hands and is staring pensively into it.

You glance at the floor. The shell Azula crushed has been swept up, almost as if she had never destroyed it. Its absence from Uncle’s collection is the only sign it was ever broken at all.

At the sound of your movement, Uncle doesn’t quite startle, but it’s a near thing. The tea in his hands shakes; the motion of looking up at you is much sharper than his normal movements. “Zuko!”

He hesitates, as if unsure what else to say.

In that hesitation, you announce, “We’re packing.”

Uncle’s face goes slack a moment, before tightening. “Nephew, perhaps we should - ”

“ _ Don’t _ call me that. Not right now.”

He pauses. Sighs. Sets the tea on the table, next to the shells. Stands up. Tries again. “Zuko, then. Zuko. We should take a moment to think before doing anything rash. Patience may be a tree of bitter roots but - ”

“I’ve done my thinking! I’ve done my waiting! I want - ”

\- you think of home, of all the things you’ve tried almost to forget, of heavily spiced food, of warm seas, of hot weather, of the plants that only grow in the warmer, humid climate of the Fire Nation, of the komodo rhino wrestlers, of the flash of gold trim on collars and hems, of the dark, towering halls of the palace, of the turtle ducks in the pond, of the stories you grew up with, of your mother, of your sister, of your father - 

“I want to go  _ home _ .” 

You swallow, then bite your lip to keep from saying anything else.

Uncle doesn’t say anything. He tries to step close to you, but you stride past him and start to put together your meager belongings. But this won’t last - soon you’ll be home again, and you will no longer have to hide how your clothes are fraying, and Uncle will even be able to keep his seashells.

Something warms rises in your chest. Something bright, like sunshine during the long Fire Nation summer. You’ve forgotten your anger. You feel - you feel - 

You can’t help but smile, just a little bit. “We’re going home!” You almost laugh. “After - after three long years, it’s unbelieveable!”

Uncle stares out the window, into the dark. He still sounds unhappy as he says, “It  _ is _ unbelievable. I have never known my brother to regret anything.”

Holy fuck. Holy fuck, does he  _ have _ to act like this? Why can’t he be happy for you, just the once?

Agni, the anger is back, so quickly, and you hadn’t wanted it back.

“Didn’t you listen to Azula?” you hiss, voice ugly. “Father’s realized how important family is to him! He  _ cares  _ about me!”

Uncle turns back to you and opens his arms wide. “ _ I  _ care about you!” he cries. “And if Ozai wants you back - well, I think it might not be for the reasons you imagine.”

You turn your back to him. You struggle to get your breathing under control, a part of you trying desperately not to blow up, because that will just make it all worse. But Uncle, he says that when your father hurts you, he cares about you, and when he wants to have you back, Uncle says he doesn’t care about you. You hunch your shoulders in a little bit. 

“You don’t know how my father feels about me,” you say quietly. Then, louder, “You don’t know anything!”

“Zuko,” Uncle says, in his most reasonable, placating,  _ I always know best _ voice, “I only meant that, in our family, things are not always as they seem.”

You’re not sure what does it. Maybe it’s the tone of his voice. Maybe it’s how he’s telling you that your father doesn’t give a damn about you. Maybe it’s how he can’t be happy for you, when things are finally,  _ finally _ going your way. Maybe it’s years of hurts. Maybe it’s that you feel misgivings too, but in your joy, you have deliberately silenced them.

Whatever it is, before you think, before you even really feel, you whirl on him and shout in a voice you barely recognize as your own, “I think you are exactly what you seem! A lazy, mistrustful, shallow old man who's always been jealous of his brother!”

You don’t want to see Uncle’s expression. You don’t want to hear his response. You escape the room and head out into the night, but as you pass him you can’t help but see - 

Uncle. He looks so tired.

 

 

You only return to the room long after it has gone dark and silent, except from Uncle’s rumbling snores. It’s cowardly, but you didn’t want to face him, after what you said. You didn’t want to act like that. It’s not like you _enjoy_ acting out of anger. You just do.

You want to forget your fight. And you’ll probably get that chance. You don’t think Uncle wants to go back with you. He’s too mistrustful, reading ill intent into your father’s actions that isn’t there, that  _ can’t _ be there. And besides, after the way you treated him - yet again - why would he want to spend a minute more with you?

Uncle knows too much about what’s wrong with you. He’s seen every failure to capture the Avatar. He’s overseen your pitiful attempts at firebending. He knows about your gender, or lack thereof, or whatever  thing  or - or delusion or whatever you have going on in your head about that. 

Your father doesn’t have to know these things. 

Well, he knows you’ve failed to capture the Avatar, but he hasn’t had to watch you fail. And he’s already given up expecting you to do better with firebending - he’s pinned his expectations on Azula, did so for years even before he banished you. He doesn’t need reminding of your weakness. And the gender thing - well, he probably really would disown you for that. Banish you permanently, with no hope of return. Not like now. 

It would be within his rights as Fire Lord. The Fire Nation needs someone strong to assume the throne after Father. The people wouldn’t want someone like you, if they knew who you really were.

But - and you keep coming back to this, again and again - it’s all in your head. This weirdness, this alienation...you made it up. So no one has to know, anymore. You shouldn’t even be bothered by it. You shouldn’t.

Your father is giving you a second chance now. You just have to try harder, to be the son he wants and the nation needs.

 

 

 

You wake early the next morning, before the sun has fully risen. Outside, the sky is a dusty purple, just faintly tinged with pink. Really, you haven’t slept much at all. You let yourself hear nothing but the warm thrum of  _ I’m going home! I’m finally going home! _

You dress quickly and quietly. It’s stupid but...you don’t want to say goodbye to Uncle. You don’t think you could bear to see his expression, to hear him talk to you, try to pull you back - or drag you down. You don’t know. At worst, you’re afraid that he’ll talk you out of going home, just because you’ve been with him all this time, because a small part of you is still terrified of disappointing him, even if you’ve done that a dozen times over already. If Uncle wants you to stay, and you listen, then you’re not sure what you will do.

Actually, maybe the worst would be if he confronted you over what you said. If he responded in kind, told you exactly what he thinks of you at your worst.

You just want to leave before he wakes.

Too late. You hear cloth shift as he sits up. You’ve already grabbed your bag and are out the door even as you hear him call behind you, “Zuko!”

You’ll miss him. You’ll really, really...

 

 

He catches up with you as you’re descending the mountain, the ship visible in the near distance of the bay. “Nephew! Wait!” he puffs. “Don’t leave without me!”

You turn. You can feel the dawn in your heart, on your skin. 

“Uncle!” you cry, a smile breaking like the sunrise over your face. You set down your bag. “You changed your mind!”

He smiles back, though you can see that something is strained in it. You guess he must still have his misgivings, but he’ll see that everything will be better now. He’ll see.

Uncle steps close to you and you don’t try to evade him this time. He hesitates, just briefly, before putting his hand on your shoulder. For a moment, you are a child - a boy - again, and your father is putting his hand on your shoulder, and it is before you have quite realized that anything is wrong with you or the world, and you feel safe and you feel loved and protected and happy. Everything is okay. But then it’s Uncle again, and he says, “Family sticks together, right?”

Family sticks together, and now you'll have all your family together, except for your mother. Even if Uncle thinks things will go bad, he'll see. It's all going to be okay again.  You feel bright inside again, now that your somewhat lonely  _ I _ has become  _ we _ .

You’re so happy that he’s coming with you. You want to keep smiling forever - but you’re not used to it, so you don’t.

“We’re finally going home!”

 

 

Prisoners.

Azula’s expression of fury shifts quickly to smugness as she looks back at you. The knife is in her smile again, her teeth glinting like moonlight on a steel edge. 

“You  lied to me!” you snarl.

“Like I’ve never done  _ that _ before,” Azula says and waves her soldiers on to attack you.

Three years away - you shouldn’t have forgotten.  Azula always lies. Azula always  fucking lies.

You roar wordlessly, throwing flames and soldiers out of your way as you chase after her. She dances back, and you follow. You summon daggers of flame and swing; she blocks. Starvation, exhaustion, shock, failure - these make you weak, and Azula has always been strong. 

Stronger. Than you.

You try to get in close, to hurt her, but she blocks you so easily it's as if she doesn't even have to try. You charge forwards again, but even with your fire inches from her skin, she laughs in your face. Then she kicks you and you have to backpedal to keep from falling.

 

“You know,” Azula begins, quite conversationally, “Father blames Uncle for the loss of the North Pole. And he considers you a failure for not finding the Avatar.” She’s grinning. She steps forward, close to you. Your breath comes harsh in your throat. You struggle to regain control of yourself, so you can channel your anger rather than being ruled by it, but it's a losing battle. “Why would he want you back home, except to lock you up where you can no longer embarrass him?”

With that, she shoves you, hard. You stumble back, then recover and charge forward again. You move on instinct, on hurt, fragile rage. You’re not winning, but you’re gaining ground. You almost have her - 

And then she blasts you back with powerful, blue fire. You go flying. You land poorly, the wind knocked out of you. It's searing hot. You try to breathe but you can’t, you just gasp uselessly at the air. You feel like you’re drowning. You drag yourself up onto your hands, and look up at her.

Azula moves in a form you don’t recognize, arms moving in a circle. Lightning crackles at her fingertips.

You need to move, you  _ have  _ to move, come  _ on _ , Zuko, come on!

You need to move, but you still haven’t caught your breath back. She’s going to hit you, and you’re going to hurt, and you’re going to die. Panic rattles your bones.

...you’re paralyzed.

She brings her hands up, about to snap them forward - 

And Uncle is there.

He grabs Azula’s fingers - electricity races along his arms - and he redirects the lighting into the nearby cliff. He twists her arm, uses that as leverage to kick her off the ship. She shrieks, and there’s a splash as she falls into the sea.

Uncle comes down to you, takes your hand to pull you up, and you run.

 

You and Uncle pause in your flight by a stream. “I think we’re safe here,” Uncle says between heavy breaths.

You just let yourself breathe for a few moments before you pull out your knife. The one Uncle gave you, which you’ve held onto all this time. You haven't lost it, not in the ocean, not in your escape from Azula.  _ Never give up without a fight _ .

But even if you fight now, you'll never be able to go home again. Ever.

To do this is to revoke your family, to signal your separation, your abdication, your shame, your commonness. Do this, and you are no longer the prince of the Fire Nation. Do this, and you are no longer the Fire Lord’s son.

Even so, you want to live.

You clench your phoenix tail in your hand, the hair bunching in your fist. You stare into your reflection on the surface of your knife. You remember - you, age thirteen, still a child even after you were burned, staring into the mirror for the first time since your bandages were removed, large swathes of your hair shaved, hating yourself, hating your fucked up, hideous face, deciding,  _ promising _ that you were a monster.

You close your eyes. In one swift motion, you bring the knife up and slice through your hair. The clump of hair comes away in your hand.

A monster. You wonder if you can be something different...now.

But holding your phoenix tail in your fist, finally and totally alienated from your country, you feel every bit a monster as you’ve ever felt.

You hand the knife to Uncle quickly, not looking at him. You can hear the soft  _ shhhff _ as he cuts through his hair as well. It’s weird. He’s marking his separation from the rest of the family and, by doing so, announces his ties with you. You’re not sure how you feel about him right now, you’re not sure how you feel about  _ anything _ right now, but that’s important. You don’t quite understand it or how it makes you feel, but it’s important. 

You raise your hand over the water. Your fingers tremble as you open your hand and let your phoenix tail fall. Uncle copies your motion. You watch; your hair sinks out of sight before the current can whisk it away.

You breathe. Uncle doesn’t touch you. Either he realizes that you can’t handle being touched right now, or he feels lost and unmoored himself.

You are without a nation, without a throne, without soldiers or ship or money.

Without any family but Uncle.

Without a home.


	18. long march

You’re not cut out for this life. You were born to be a prince, not...not…

This.

You’ve never fished before. It looked like it shouldn’t be too hard - there are hundreds of fishermen. They all manage to fish and make livings off of it. But either it’s harder than it looks, or you’re even more incompetent than you thought. You haven't caught a single damn thing.

Despite your banishment, you’ve never had to live outside the scope of the Fire Nation for any length of time before. Now that you must, you find yourself woefully unprepared.

You don’t know how to fish. You don’t know which plants are edible. You don’t know how to start a fire without firebending. You don’t know how to hunt or build a trap. 

It’s just - it’s _frustrating_. Everything you’ve learned, everything Uncle’s learned, it’s all useless like this. Strategy, scholarship, the particulars of running a ship, everything you've tried to be: all useless, all worthless.

You can't continue to be the exile prince. You have got to learn to be someone, something else, and fast.

 

 

It astounds you, later. In the quiet moments, as you try to sleep and fail, as you walk and walk and do not speak. 

The suddenness of loss.

Your mother’s disappearance. The Agni Kai with your father. Your sister’s words. The deceptively soft sound of your knife cutting your hair. All sudden. All...shattering.

Walking silently, you eye Uncle, wondering when you will lose him too. Will it be sudden too, unexpected like lightning? Or is it already happening, slow, like an infection?

When will he leave you? Or - more accurately - when will your actions make him leave you?

You brush a hand over your head, feeling where hair once was and where new hair is growing in.  You’re not sure what your goals are or should be, but for now you just have to keep on.


	19. song

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ayy so mild joke here b/c the title of this chapter and the previous one is a play off of Song of the Long March which is a really pretty manga w/ a super cool main character so. while it's sometimes plotty to the point of being confusing, I recommend checking it out.
> 
> Anyway, this chapter is like hello culture clash and also awkward emotional conversations, like my fucking specialty (and not with Uncle this time! oh my!)

Your lack of knowledge soon comes to bite you (or, more specifically, Uncle) in the ass. Edible, inedible plants. What is a deadly poison. What is an antidote. You’ve never really had to think about it before. You had never wanted for anything when you were home, and then you were on the sea, far away from any greenery.

Agni, when you return to him after failing to fish yet again and see him, skin all red and blistered and shiny like he had been burned all over, his breath too thick, wheezing, whistling in his throat, as he says he has hours, only hours, just hours to live - 

Terror, only distantly familiar, tastes like bile in the back of your throat and feels heavy like lead in your veins.

You have to do something. Uncle needs a doctor immediately - but where to go?

Should you turn to the Fire Nation or to the Earth Kingdom for help? The Earth Kingdom will execute you if it learns who you are, but the Fire Nation will turn you over to Azula. Azula, with her knife of a smile and her eagerness to hurt.

You have no choice, only the illusion of it.

Earth Kingdom it is.

 

 

Uncle’s hand on your shoulder is heavy as he leans on you for balance. 

When you ask a passerby where the nearest doctor is, he gives you directions all the while staring at Uncle with wide eyes. When he glances at you, his gaze catches on your scar - his eyes widen further. 

You scowl and tug your hat lower over your face as Uncle thanks the man politely.

With the man’s directions, you find the clinic easily enough. It is marked by a small sign by the door, with the words  _ clinic and apothecary _ painted in green, in the odd, blocky writing style favored by the Earth Kingdom. The door is open. 

You knock on the door frame as you enter. It seems polite. There’s a girl right by the entrance, holding a basin of water for another woman, who is cleaning a cut on someone's leg with a washcloth.

As soon as she catches sight of you and Uncle, the girl nearly drops the basin she’s holding. “My goodness!” she exclaims, hurriedly setting it down on a nearby table. Bloody water splashes over the side, but she doesn’t seem to notice. She hurries over to Uncle. “What happened to you?”

“He tried to make tea with the, uh…”

“The white jade plant,” Uncle supplies. His expression turns comically mournful. You think he might be trying to make you feel better about the whole damn thing. If that’s the case, it’s not working. “I thought it was the white dragon plant. Said to make tea so wonderful it breaks your heart.”

“Oh, well, people here know better than to touch the white jade plant, let alone make tea with it, but come over here and I’ll see what I can do for you.” She directs you both over to a bed by the wall before rummaging through the shelves along the walls.

“You can fix this, right?” you demand. Your voice comes out all strained and too high. “Uncle’s going to be fine, right?”

She turns back to you. “Oh, of course! Medicine made from bacui berries will make the inflammation go down and soothe the irritation. Your - uncle, you said? - he’ll be right as rain before nightfall.”

Some of the tension falls from your shoulders. You rock back on your heels, feeling suddenly drained. Uncle will be okay. That’s good. That’s...good.

You’re so relieved.

As she works on Uncle, the girl tells you her name is Song. It's a soft name, with a round, cool vowel. Pretty. She is very pretty, you notice. She smiles and it is very soft, and pretty. You sort of like that and you sort of don't. You've never known how to be around soft things.

But something about the way she moves is very odd. Her movements are graceful but...not quite soft. It’s as if she is constantly forgetting that her body is as small as it is. Like she’s been displaced. Her stance, her steps are wide, but without the heavy surefootedness of an earthbender or the precise movements of a soldier.

Like a man, you think. 

Huh.

Then she asks you where you're traveling from and you fumble a response. Uncle stares at you flatly. Without the mantle of the Fire Nation, eloquent you are not. Sure, not like you were exactly the best speaker before, but it wasn't like anyone but your tutors or your family would call you on it. Your title, even tarnished as it became, protected you.

Now you have to constantly speak carefully and that goes very much against your grain. You have to hide  _ everything _ about yourself now.

It’s not like you’re stupidly straightforward or anything. It’s just - the constant subtle lying - it’s hard. It just gets really hard.

You know that better than anyone else.

 

 

You're not quite sure how it happened, but somehow you've gotten roped into a meal with Song and her mother. You're pretty sure it has much to do with Uncle thinking with his stomach, but you're mystified with why Song would have even invited you in the first place. She doesn't know the first thing about you and Uncle - for the better, but still.

Your reluctance must really be showing in your attitude because Uncle hisses in your ear, “You must accept their hospitality graciously, my nephew.”

You don't respond, but you do incline your head to acknowledge what he said.

He called you  _ nephew _ . Of course, to call you by your name, a Fire Nation name with its sharp syllables and angry  _ z _ , a Fire Nation name and a famous one at that, to call you  _ Zuko  _ here....that would be dangerous.

So he called you  _ my nephew _ instead.

You shouldn't think so much of such small things.

Song and her mother’s house is surprisingly spacious, but all of the furnishings are painfully simple. A small wooden bench sits by the door for you to sit and take off your shoes. The wood is smooth, but nothing has been carved into it. No designs or anything. 

After a moment of hesitation, you take off your hat as well. Rather than setting it by your shoes, however, you hold onto it, like some sort of shield from Song’s gaze.

After three years, you think you’d get used to the way people react to your scar. But somehow, every single time, every reaction feels like the first time. Every gasp or flinch or dumb stare feels like the first gasp or flinch or dumb fucking stare. It never feels better.

As soon as she sets eyes on your scar, Song pales, but surprisingly enough she doesn’t stare nor does she avert her eyes in the exaggerated manner so many people adopt. You don’t know why she doesn’t act disgusted or horrified by it like so many random strangers do, but you’re stupidly grateful. 

You don’t get to see much of the house because Song takes you directly to their living room, which is at once a place to eat, to work on such small things as needlework, and receive guests. It’s definitely weird - in the Fire Nation, there would be separate rooms for each of these things, and usually multiple for different occasions or statuses. Is this difference due to the difference in nations’ cultures or due to their poverty?

Despite whatever circumstances Song’s ledgers might be in, the food her mother sets out on the table is plentiful and delicious-smelling. 

Uncle says, “Hunger may broaden the palate, but this food looks so good that I doubt even starvation could improve the taste.”

Song’s mother demures with a mild blush. You stare at Uncle. You’re sure there was a compliment in there somewhere, but for the life of you, you have no idea what or where it was. Is that just some old person compliment thing? Whatever.

“Go ahead, eat!” Song’s mother says, waving a hand at you. “I’ll return with the main dish in just a moment, but there is no need for you to wait on my behalf.”

Usually Uncle would answer her politeness with even more politeness of his own, but he says, “Thank you for letting us partake in your meal,” before beginning to fill his plate. You nod and follow his example.

The food really is delicious. The last good meal you had was that first day back on land, on the anniversary of your banishment, and the food had spoiled on your tongue when you had learned what day it was.

You miss the bite, the spice, of Fire Nation food. You’ll probably never eat it again.

Song’s mother returns, carrying a platter with an entire roast duck on it. You stare at it, dumbfounded. Is that  _ normal _ ? Do people in the Earth Kingdom just eat entire roast ducks with a normal meal? You wouldn’t have been surprised if they seemed like they had money, but you had thought they were poor! Were you wrong? What - ?? 

Agni, the Earth Kingdom is fucking  _ weird _ .

As she carefully sets the platter down, Song’s mother says, “My daughter tells me you're refugees.” She sits gracefully and smiles at you and Uncle. Her smile has a small, sad thing, but it has a knowing feel to it. As if she is sharing a secret with you. “We were once refugees ourselves.”

Refugees?

You glance at Song. She too tries to smile, but she fails. “When I was little, the Fire Nation raided our village,” Song tells you, and she stares directly at you, speaking more to you than to Uncle or to her mother. “All the men were taken away...that was the last time I saw my father.”

Something in you moves - or it trembles, or it shifts - you wonder if it is an Earth Kingdom thing, to feel like you are shaking apart inside. To feel the earth quaking in your chest, in your stomach. 

It hurts.

“I haven’t seen my father in many years,” you say softly.

Uncle stills beside you. 

The words feel drawn out of you, you don’t even know why you spoke. 

“Oh,” Song says. She sounds sad. You’re not sure if or why she’s sad for you. “Is he fighting in the war?”

You set your bowl down. Uncle slurps his noodles loudly, as if to cover up your dead silence. 

In large part, it’s your father’s war, even though he doesn’t ever fight in person. In a way, he’s the reason Song’s village was raided, why her father was taken away. 

That doesn’t feel good.

You don't know what you think of your father right now. Even so, you doubt you'll ever stop fighting for his approval, though it seems that it will never come. That’s a private war of your own, fought with him and for him.

...is he fighting in the war, huh.

“Yeah,” you answer. You feel almost as if you’re lying. It turns your stomach, but you keep eating anyway.

 

 

You are silent for the rest of the meal. Uncle keeps up a cheery conversation, but no amount of charisma can hide that fact that you’re the human equivalent of a dry well - useless, treacherous, consuming without giving. Every second more you sit here wears on you. You escape outside as soon as it is no longer unforgivably rude to do so.

The porch is nice, with paper lamps spilling golden light onto the smooth wooden boards. You sit and do your best to meditate. Without candles or flames of any kind, however, it is difficult to achieve the out-of-mind focus you need. You just can’t stop thinking about the war, about your father, about Song’s father and refugees and Song and poisonous plants and Uncle, about home, about every little thing you miss. Everything you let yourself remember when Azula came to take you back, and everything you can’t forget now that you truly  _ can’t  _ go back.

An Earth Kingdom night is very different from a Fire Nation one, or from one on the sea. The Earth Kingdom, as a general rule, is dry; its air does not hold the day’s heat like the Fire Nation does. Fire Nation nights are warm. Nights on the sea can be temperamental, unpredictable. But nights in the Earth Kingdom are always cold. 

You shiver. You want to go home. You’ve always thought about it, but now that it’s absolutely, truly, finally impossible, the thought won’t stop needling you. You want to go home. You want to go home.

The door opens and Song steps out on the porch beside you. You wish she’d go away.

“Can I join you?” she asks. 

You almost say  _ no _ but that would be really rude, so you don’t. You don’t say anything at all.

You don’t look at her as she comes by you and sits down. She folds her legs underneath her so that she’s kneeling, the way women always sit with their skirts. The way she sits shouldn’t be remarkable, but somehow it seems that way.

For a moment she’s silent, looking out into the dark night with you. Then she turns to you and really  _ looks _ at you, looks at your scar. It’s like the sort of staring you hate, but not quite. You’re not quite sure how it’s different. It’s less curiosity and more...compassion.

“I know what you’ve been through,” Song says.

_ How could you possibly know? _ you think.

“We’ve all been through it,” she says.

_ No, you damn well haven’t,  _ you think.

“The Fire Nation has hurt you,” she says.

And you have nothing to think in response to that, because you are consumed suddenly and again by your massive sense of loss.

(You think:  _ the Fire Nation hurt me / I  _ am  _ Fire Nation / I am no longer Fire Nation / I have no home anymore _ )

She reaches out to touch you, to touch your scar. 

_ No!  _

You catch her wrist without looking at her. You dig your fingers in tightly, as if in warning, but really you’re just scared, and you don’t entirely know why. The world has gotten so twisted out of shape, that you feel like you never really know anything.

After a moment, you realize that you still are holding her wrist - you let go, pushing her arm back at her. You push harder than you meant to; you can hear her gasp.

But she doesn’t get angry at you and she doesn’t get scared. Instead she just says, “It’s okay. They’ve hurt me too.”

She pulls up her skirt, then rolls up one pants leg to show you the thick, ropey burn scars that snake around her calf. 

Agni.

You’ve never met someone like her, someone  _ normal _ with burn scars. You’ve seen plenty of soldiers with burns, plenty of prisoners. But normal people - that doesn’t happen to them. You almost didn’t think it was possible.

Which is stupid, because she said she was a refugee. Refugees are victims of war. The Earth Kingdom is fighting the Fire Nation. Of course noncombatants would be burned. You wouldn’t expect anything else, would you?

You feel like you should say something. But what? The only thing you can think of is  _ I’m sorry _ , but it’s not like  _ you _ burned her. So why the fuck do you feel like you want to apologize? Apologize for what?

You realize you’re staring. Not at her scars, but at her. Her expression. It’s soft still. Vulnerable. 

If you were her, you wouldn’t be able to be that soft. You’re not that soft. And she didn’t even cause herself to get hurt like you did. She told you, she was just a child when her village was raided. She didn’t do anything then. You were old enough to land yourself into trouble, so you deserved what you got. But she didn’t. The injustice of it is astounding. How can she continue to be so soft and so kind when her life has been so fucked up and miserable?

You just - you don’t understand.

You think your own vulnerability has shown on your face somehow because she smiles at you, the corners of her eyes crinkling gently. “I feel like we can understand each other,” Song tells you.

You watch her as she tugs her pant leg down again; the scars disappear from view. You wish you could hide your own so easily. 

You wonder if her scars make it hard to walk. 

You think of how she isn’t anything like you.

You remember her scars.

“Maybe,” you say. 

It’s a noncommittal one-word answer, but her smile brightens upon hearing it. Then she looks away, into the the night again. You follow her gaze into the darkness. 

“It’s just - ” she begins, then stops. Her hands play with the edge of her skirt. They’re broad Earth Kingdom hands. “It’s just, no one here knows what it’s like. To not fit. They’ve been here their entire lives. My mom and me, we’re the only outsiders.” She shrugs. “They don’t mean to treat us that way. This town, these people - they’re really nice. They’ve been really good to us.  But we’ve never been theirs.

She bites her lip. “I think maybe it’s me though. Mom does better...you wouldn’t think she would, cause she was older when she came here and every night she would cry about my father, and I thought she’d never be able to reach out to anyone else ever again. But she’s been good here. It’s been good. And she fits in, now. Almost like she’s always been here. But I don’t.

“I think maybe if I were different, if something in me were different, I’d be okay. It’s like my skin is wrong for the size of my body; I’ve never felt like I’ve fit right. In...in a lot of ways.” She wipes at her face, before looking at you and smiling again. But her smile’s got a wobbly quality to it now, like she might start crying at any second. “I’m sorry. I really - I really shouldn’t be saying all of this to you, you’re only here for the evening, but it really feels like you can understand what it’s like. We’re quite similar, I think.”

Yeah, you’ve never fit right either. And now you fit even less right.

“I...guess I can understand,” you start, but you don’t know where to go from there. What are you going to tell her, that you’re in exile? That you’re a  _ spirit person _ ? That you’re from the nation that hurt her and took her father away, but now you’re stuck forever in an enemy nation? “I don’t belong here.”

“Where do you feel like you belong?” she asks. Her question could easily be a weapon, but her voice is kind. And curious. And like she desperately wants to know.

“I can’t go home, so…” You trail off. “I…”

You don’t know.

“Oh,” she says. Her hands fist in her skirt before she deliberately loosens her grip again. She lays them gently in her lap. “I wish I knew too.”

There’s nothing more to say, after that.


	20. quake

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey guys, sorry for the absence. I try to not get into the habit of apologizing for every delay but it has been a while. November was really rough in a number of ways, so I didn't really have the time or mental space to write. I did want a longer chapter to make up for having been gone, but honestly I am not all the way back yet, so I decided to post before I head into finals. Good luck to everyone dealing with the end of the semester, it's killer. Hopefully once I'm able to go home and spend time with my dog and such, I'll be able to recover some and write more, because I really want to work on this story more. 
> 
> This chapter and the next are the still on the negative end of the emotional tone spectrum, but after that we get an upswing that's gonna last a while, so cheers.
> 
> Onto the ostrich horse dilemma! Chapter 20!!

As the evening wears on, your thoughts begin to curdle in your stomach.  _ Why did I say that? _ you repeat over and over to yourself. Why did you say anything about your father? Why did you say anything about not belonging? Why did you let her believe that she and you were similar? Why did you let  _ yourself _ believe that?

By the time you and Uncle are leaving, you feel well and truly sick, even though the food had been really good. You're not nauseous...not quite. You're not sure what it is, but it's a bad feeling like a pit where your stomach used to be. Like something important in your center collapsed, and now the rest of you is threatening to collapse as well.

You feel...a sense of vulnerability, and regret and shame that you let yourself be vulnerable. Something like that.

Agni, you feel so fucking  _ stupid _ .

You dig your nails into your wrist, much like how you had grabbed Song’s wrist earlier, when she tried to touch your scar. It stings but doesn't bleed. You dig your nails in further, just to the point before breaking the skin. It hurts, just a little, which feels good. Feels right.

You can't look at Song, who is so pretty and so kind, who thinks she doesn't belong but she  _ must _ , because she's so many things you...aren’t.

“Can we go already?” you mutter under your breath. Uncle gives you a pointed look but no one else hears you. Whatever. You don’t care. You don’t  _ care _ . You turn to leave.

“Junior,” Uncle says sharply. “Where are your manners? You need to thank these nice people.”

You turn back and give a bow just deep enough to be polite, holding your hands in the Earth Kingdom fashion. “Thank you.”

Song steps forward; you glance at her, you can’t help it. Her expression is so compassionate it’s painful. You can’t look away. “I know you don’t think there’s any hope left in the world, but there  _ is.  _ The Avatar has returned!”

The Avatar used to be your hope, but for entirely different reasons than hers.

You turn your head away.

“I know,” you say, and though you tried to sound nice, the words come out clipped and hard.  You walk away before you can say or do anything more that you’ll regret.

_ This _ is why it was crazy and stupid to think that you had any sort of connection with her. An Earth Kingdom commoner, a refugee after your nation’s soldiers burnt her village to a crisp? Of course she thinks the Avatar is her personal salvation! She wants him to destroy your - what used to be your home! Are you  _ that  _ desperate for the company of others?

Why does it matter? Why does it matter anyway?

Why do you need to have other people?

You push open the gate to their garden with a little more force than necessary. Uncle, following behind you, catches it before the gate door can go crashing back into its frame. He closes it gently behind him.

An ostrich horse tied to a post grazes in front of a small stable. When she brought you to her house, Song had pointed it out with pride - they had bought the ostrich horse just two months before, using the money she brought in from her work at the clinic.

You’re suddenly struck by the desire to make her hurt, to  _ prove  _ you’re nothing like her.

A moment later you feel shaken, not entirely sure where that thought had come from. You don’t really want to hurt her, do you? You’ve - you’ve never really enjoyed hurting anybody. That’s just what you’ve had to do, and even when you’re trying not to, you end up hurting people anyway. It’s easy. It’s so easy. And when you’re angry, it even sort of feels good.

But you don’t actually want to hurt Song, right? 

Right?

...however.

...you and Uncle are going to be traveling a lot now. Going on foot is slow and hard, but you don’t have anything close to the coin needed to buy a mount like an ostrich horse.

You take a step forward. Another step. You put your hands on the ostrich horse’s reins. They’re trembling, your hands.

Why are you hesitating? It’s a simple value judgment.

The ostrich horse will benefit you and Uncle much more than it can benefit Song and her mother. Uncle’s pretty strong, but you can see the travel wearing on him already. As for you, you still haven’t entirely recovered from the explosion of your ship, even though that was well over a month ago now. At this point, you doubt your body is ever going to be back to the way it was. It’s little things, like how if you walk too fast or too long, your ankles and knees ache fiercely, or how there is a constant stiffness in your spine. So really, both you and Uncle really need this damn ostrich horse. What is Song going to use it for, to carry groceries?

That’s unfair. You know it is.

But that doesn’t matter. You  _ do _ need it more than she does.

Just - just  _ take  _ it already.

Uncle has noticed that you’re no longer following. His footsteps stop. “What are you doing?”

Your hands tighten on the reins. 

“What does it look like I’m doing?” you say flatly. You start to untie the ostrich horse. Your movements are jerky, mechanical.

“These people just showed you great kindness!” Uncle’s voice isn’t angry, exactly. You don’t think. More heavy, weighed down, like boots filled with water. Disappointed.

“Well, they’re going to show us a little more kindness,” you say through gritted teeth. Each word is difficult to get out, like you have to fight for it. Heavy in your mouth, on your tongue, like rocks. Each syllable gumming and sticking to your teeth like tar. 

“Zuko.”

The sound of your name causes you to look up at him. You hadn’t even realized that you had been staring so singlemindedly at your shaking hands.

You can’t read his expression. You sometimes wish you were better at that, at understanding and dealing with people. Uncle’s eyes are the same warm color as ever, but his gaze isn’t soft. He’s definitely not happy with you.

Is he angry?

He steps close to you. You can’t help but flinch a little, your shoulders hitching closer to your ears.

He stops. Then, very slowly, he reaches out and settles his hands over yours, where you hold the ostrich horse’s reins with a white-knuckled grip. Your hands are still shaking, but his are still and firm.

“Zuko,” he says again, squeezing your fingers. “Let it go.”

You hear Song whispering in your ear, her voice kind,  _ It’s okay. They’ve hurt me too _ . You only knew her for hours, and already she’s a ghost in your head.

“No! I - I can’t,” you say, the words still heavy and hard in your mouth. “We need this. I don’t - there’s no  _ choice _ .”

Uncle’s grip tightens further, to the point of hurting. “There is always a choice to be had. And I believe that you know, in your heart of hearts, what to choose here.”

Why are - why are you afraid?

“I don’t know,” you growl, ripping your hands away. The ostrich horse startles, and Uncle reaches out to soothe it. You look away.  “I don’t know,  _ okay _ ? I - I don’t know.”

Uncle rests his hand on the ostrich horse’s neck. Any gentleness in his tone is gone. “First see what is right, and seize the courage to then do what is right.”

Your hands clench on air. You can’t quite look Uncle in the eye, so you stare at a fixed point just beyond his left ear. “Our survival is right.”

“Our survival does not rest on the back of a single ostrich horse.” Uncle ties the reins of the ostrich horse to the post again. “Zuko. Nephew. You can let it go.”

Your hands are empty.

“Fine,” you say. Nothing feels fine. “Let’s just go.”

You watch as his hands fall and come to rest at his sides.

“Okay,” Uncle says. “Okay. We can go.”

 

 

The silence as you walk together is oppressive in a way it never has been before. Uncle still wears disappointment heavy and dark as a shroud on his shoulders. He doesn’t want to talk to you, and you don’t want to talk to him. 

What would you say, anyway? What can you say to the man who just stopped you from stealing a work animal from its rightful owners, who minutes before had you in their home as guests? You know what you wanted to do wasn’t good, but you don’t know if it was actually wrong either. What if, by leaving that ostrich horse with Song, you have endangered your future?

...but what future is that? Survival? What do you hope to gain by living?

What is the fucking point?

You scrub your hands over your face. You can’t think like this. You can't. But you just don’t see how things are ever going to get any better.

There have been very few things you’ve liked in the Earth Kingdom. The trees, in their broadness. The animals you’d never seen before. The clothes, in that you have been able to find ones similar to what you wore as the Blue Spirit, easy to move in but not masculine, making your form androgynous without feminizing it. And even though it’s not your military clothes, these new clothes have felt - okay. You’ve felt a little less weird about yourself since you were able to wear clothes like this.

But a new place, clothing that you like - that’s nothing. That doesn’t mean anything. It’s not a goal, or a sense of self, or, or - or anything.

There has to be something that will give you a reason to - to keep going, right? But everything you were, everything you had, everything you aspired to do and to be - all of that was ripped away in a single day. You can never be who you were again, and you can never be who you were supposed to be. You don’t even think you want to try, anymore.

You wonder what Uncle thinks. What he sees in his future. 

If he believes he has one.

 

 

Each progressive day feels harder and harder. You're always more weary than the day before, more hungry, more dirty. Uncle always moves a little more slowly in the morning than he did the day before. You talk to him less, he smiles at you less. More and more moments Uncle might once have spent trying to teach you are now spent in tired silence. More and more moments you spend digging your nails into your skin and blindly, tiredly hating everything.

You hate living like this.

If you had stolen the ostrich horse, life would be easier. You should have taken it. Uncle should never have talked you out of it.

Of course, if you hadn't lost your birthright, you wouldn't have any of these problems. You - and Uncle - would be at home. Well fed, and clean, and respected.

If you hadn't ruined everything at thirteen, you would still be at home.

Uncle didn't fuck up like you did. Well, he lost Ba Sing Se, but that's not the same as giving the Fire Lord unforgivable insult. If Uncle wanted to go home, he could. He doesn't have to be here with you. If he gave you up, he could go home.

...so why is he here? Does he enjoy this? Playing at being some common trash?

Uncle said that there's always a choice, but you don't think that's true.  _ Uncle _ has all the choices; you don't.

All you want is to go home, but you can't. Uncle could go home if he wanted to, but he won't, and you don't understand why not.

And when he decides to do things like  _ this _ , you realize you really don't understand him at all.

“This is beneath us!” you say irritably. You can feel the tell-tale obvious heat on your cheeks, and the obviousness of your embarrassment just makes everything feel worse. You tug your hat lower so it can cast your face in shadow. “I don't want to be doing this!”

Uncle seems unperturbed where he kneels by his begging bowl. The bowl is a rough, misshapen piece of pottery, with a couple copper coins in it. Not enough to buy anything more than rice, for one meal.

“We're just common folk,” Uncle replies. “Relying on the kindness of others once in a while is not beneath us, or anyone.”

You cross your arms and shake your head. 

Uncle pats the straw mat beside him. “Come, sit by me. No one will come near us with you glowering like an angry komodo rhino.”

Reluctantly, you kneel beside him. Despite the thick cloth of your pants, the rough straw digs into your knees. You have no idea how Uncle can sit here, uncomfortable as all Koh’s lair, and still look content.

You lean over to him, arms still folded, and hiss into his ear, “This is humiliating!” You gesture at the marketplace around you, and the people in it. You continue with a conviction you’re not sure you feel, “We’re - we’re royalty! These people, they should be giving us whatever we want!”

Uncle’s smile tightens. “They will if we ask them nicely.” Then he moves, reaching up with his bowl to a passerby. As he moves, his smile brightens, his expression grows more lively. It’s as if you can see the energy return to him. “Miss!” he calls, tone bordering on the dramatic, “Spare any coin for weary travelers?”

The woman turns. He gaze ghosts over you, as if you aren’t there, and comes to rest on Uncle. 

“Aw, here you go,” she says, fishing a copper coin out of her pocket. She drops it into Uncle’s bowl. “I hope that helps.”

Uncle bows, bending forward from his seated position. “The coin is much appreciated, but not as much as your smile!”

The woman laughs. “Oh, I’m sure that’s not true, but thank you!”

“As I said,” Uncle whispers to you as she leaves. The traces of his smile still linger in his expression as he looks at you. 

A shadow falls across his face.

You both look up to see the source of the shadow: a large, burly man with dual dao swords on his back. He’s grinning. There’s something in his expression that you don’t like. Something cruel.

You watch the way he moves warily, tensing at every slightest movement towards his swords. The grinning swordsman grasps his belt with broad hands, then gives a relaxed roll of his shoulders. His eyes settle on the two of you with an almost tangible weight. 

“How about some entertainment in exchange for...a gold piece?” he says, pulling a gold coin out of his sleeve, twisting his wrist so that the coin catches the sunlight.

“We’re  _ not _ performers!” you snap.

Uncle raises a quelling hand. “Not professional anyway.” He stands and begins to sing, awfully offkey, “It's a long, long way to Ba Sing Se, but the girls in the city, they look so pretty!” 

It’s a ditty you recognize as getting quite dirty in the later verses.  _ Agni, Uncle _ , you think.  _ Gross! _

The grinning swordsman isn’t grinning anymore. “Come on, we’re talking a gold piece here!” He draws his swords. Your head snaps up, and you make a jerky, abortive attempt to stand. Your movement upsets Uncle’s bowl - you curse and move to gather the lost coins.

You can feel the moment he turns his attention away from Uncle and zeroes in on you. You freeze, then very slowly continue to pick up the coins and drop them back in the bowl.

He gestures at you with his swords. “You, ah - ”

He squints at you.

“Huh. You are either the ugliest girl I’ve ever seen, or a boy who - well. I shouldn’t say; there’s women and children about. Well, let’s see if something like you can dance. Come on, get up!”

Your cheeks  _ burn _ . You draw your arms back and twist your fingers into the hem of your clothing. 

You feel the shadow of your father on your back. 

At the memory of your father, your hands jerk and begin to tremble, so you hide the tremors by clenching the fabric in white-knuckled fists. You have to stand up. You’re still kneeling, with this man looming over you. Come on, stand up. His swords are drawn. If you don’t move, he is going to hurt you. You  _ need  _ to stand up! Agni, why is it so hard to move?

“Sir,” Uncle interjects. “There’s no need to ask my nephew to perform. An old man like me is happy to dance for you.”

“Nephew, huh,” the swordsman says. “Sure don’t look it to me, wearing crap like that.”

You continue to burn with shame. The clothes you liked before, the ones that make you seem like less of a boy - they’ve singled you out as weird and wrong. They’ve made you recognized as  _ different _ in perhaps a less dangerous way than Fire Nation  _ different _ , but  _ different _ nonetheless.

“They kiss so sweet - ”

The swordsman turns his eye back to Uncle, who has started up the song again and is hopping lightly from foot to weary foot. As he watches, the swordsman starts snickering, then full-belly guffaws. “Nothing like a fat man dancing for his dinner!”

He tosses the gold coin at Uncle’s feet and saunters off, lacking even the grace to drop it in the begging bowl.

Uncle bends down to pick the coin up. “How kind of him,” he says, watching the swordsman leave, but the tone of his voice is all wrong. He sounds at once overly cheery and deeply upset. 

He moves over to be sitting by you again. “Nephew,” he says to you, voice quiet, tone softened, “Now that we have this, let us go and get something to eat.”

You nod, grateful for the hat that hides your expression. Your cheeks still feel much too hot. And inside, you feel tight and sick, and you’re not sure you’ll have the appetite to eat anything ever again.

You never, ever want to feel like this again.

You stand. The tight, shivery feeling in your stomach hardens. You take a deep breath and clench your fists.

You’ve decided. You are never going to let anyone make you feel this way, ever again.

Never again.


	21. schism

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Negative character development: the chapter.

All is quiet.

Uncle is sleeping. He always was one for going to bed early, but he never used to be this heavy a sleeper. In a way, that's a good thing. He won't know what you're about to do.

You know that he'd be worried just looking at you now, but you don't quite care.

The edge of the knife Uncle gave you glints in the moonlight as you trail the blade across your fingertips. It's too dark to make out the characters engraved on the blade, but you know what it says.

 _Never give up without a fight_.

You press just hard enough with the blade to feel a sense of anticipatory danger, but not hard enough to break the skin. It's possible to get an infection, no matter how small the cut, and you have no desire to run that risk.

You hold the power to hurt yourself in your hands, but you can choose whether to do so or not. It feels good. It feels like control.

You've decided that no one gets to hurt you any more or ever again. You won't let them, no matter if that means you have to hurt them first. Preemptive strikes. You don't care if it's a cruel thing. _No one_ hurts you ever again.

You slide the knife back into its sheath and stand.

No one. No soldiers from any nation. Not the Avatar or his little gang. Not your sister, or your father, or even your uncle.

And you're going to start with the grinning asshole with the dual dao blades.

 

 

You remember, long ago now, the night you stole the clothing and mask that made you the Blue Spirit. You remember the furtiveness, the fear. You were scared to death of being caught, not just for the consequences of stealing but for the consequences of _what_ you were stealing. A mask, a dress. Not men’s things. Not the sort of things a prince should have.

Now you feel no fear. Fear died a temporary death tonight, drowned by anger.

You no longer remember why you let yourself lose your anger. It's always been what's driven you, what's made you strong. Who would you be without it?

You slip silently from shadow to shadow in the center of town, aiming for a certain cart. You had seen it earlier, before the swordsman came, had seen the flash of blue and white. The Blue Spirit mask.

You would steal clothes too, but you can't justify the extra baggage when you must carry everything on foot. The dusty dark browns and grays of your current clothes definitely aren't black, but in the darkness they do nearly as well. Besides, the cut of the clothing is very similar to what you wore as the Blue Spirit. It's why you like them.

Ah, here's the cart. Locked and shuttered, but the heat you bring to your fingertips melts the lock, allowing you to rip it off. You toss it carelessly to the side and slide the shutters up.

Sitting among the masks, the Blue Spirit scowls at you, but the expression almost looks like a welcoming grin. You lift the mask off its hook and slip it on. It feels right on your face.

You don't bother to leave any coins in it's place. You don't have the money to spare, and besides, the Blue Spirit mask has always been yours.

 

 

It doesn't take much time to find the swordsman. The little town’s only tavern just closed for the night, and he's just now been turned onto the street. His pace is steady - he's not particularly drunk. What's the point of being in a tavern so late then? He's an asshole, you doubt he was socializing.

Whatever. You don't actually care.

You stalk him until he turns into a sufficiently secluded alley. Then, like a cat owl almost, you pounce.

It’s a short fight - he doesn’t see you coming. It ends with you kicking him down, pinning him with your foot, and leaning forward to take the dual dao swords that fell beside him.

You straighten up to give the swords a few experimental sweeps through the air. They’re well balanced and decently sharp. Good.

You lean forward again and slide the swords that used to be his under his neck. You can see the sheen of sweat on his skin. You press the swords against his throat, against where those vulnerable veins run, just hard enough to let him know you could hurt him if you really wanted to.

He whimpers.

He's terrified.

 _That'll teach this prick not to mess with old men or_ \- your lips, your mouth, feel dry - _or with people like me._

For a moment, you think about scarring him.

You shift your grip on the swords. _You_ could hurt him. Could really hurt him.

You could use his own swords to scar him.

For the first time that night, you feel scared. You don't - you don't want to be like your father. Not in that way.

Why were you thinking like that?

You swallow and withdraw the swords from his throat. You transfer both swords to one hand. Then you bend down and rip the sheath off his belt. Still pinning him down, you slide the swords into their sheath.

You take your weight off him and step back. Gripping the sheath tightly in both hands, you incline your head before melting into the shadows.

 

 

You stow the Blue Spirit mask in the hollow of a nearby tree before you return to the campsite. The swords, however, you keep with you. There’s no point in attempting to hide them.

The embers from that night’s campfire are still glowing beneath a layer of ash as you return. You slide into your bedroll, swords placed next to you, and watch the embers' shimmering light for a couple moments before turning your gaze upwards. The deep blue of the night sky is already fading to lavender; dawn is near.

Thinking about the swiftly approaching end of night shakes you. _An end is coming_ , you think as you close your eyes.

_But the end of what?_

 

 

The sun seems to rise too early.  By the time you feel up to crawling out of your bedroll, Uncle is already up and about. He’s making tea in a battered old tea pot he got for cheap because the handle was missing. He hisses as he picks it up by the sides - it must be hot.

Uncle notices that you’re awake as soon as you begin to move. “Nephew!” he exclaims, immediately setting down the too-hot tea pot and coming over to you. He kneels by your side. “Are you feeling quite alright?”

“I’m fine,” you grumble blearily.

“No fever?” Uncle asks, and presses the back of his hand to your forehead.

You immediately stiffen at the touch, and push his hand away. “I’m fine!” You scoot back, out of the bedroll and out of Uncle’s reach.

Uncle’s eyebrows are drawn low in concern. “Are you sure? We can stay here for a few days if you are not feeling well. There is no sense in pushing our limits and ruining our health at this point in time.”

“I’m _fine_ ,” you say for the third time. You really don't want to stay by the town the swordsman lives in. “Just didn’t sleep well, I guess. It’s nothing more than that. We can leave.”

“If you say so,” Uncle says. His tone is dubious. Has he caught you already? He wasn’t awake last night, was he? Your stomach swoops, but he continues, “Still, I think, revising our pace may be wise. We have no need to rush.”

“Oh, okay,” you say blankly. So he’s not suspicious. Then you feel like you could kick yourself. What sort of response was that, ‘oh, okay’?! What kind of idiot are you? Is there a more suspicious response than that?

Why are you always so fucking stupid?

But Uncle doesn’t seem to think your response is anything out of the ordinary. Instead, he turns back to making tea. “I still have that nice jasmine tea,” he says. “It will be ready in a few minutes. And I believe there are still some dried fruits in the pack - can you take them out for me please?”

You try to breathe. Uncle hasn’t noticed anything different. It’s all okay. The only one hurting you right now is you.

“Of course, Uncle,” you say. You get up, stretch, then walk over to the pack that carries most of your supplies. The dried fruits are cheaper than fresh fruit but more expensive than rice. However, both you and Uncle know that long term eating only rice will make you weak and unhealthy, so he persuaded you to buy the fruit and you’ve been portioning it out for breakfasts each day.

As you are sifting through the pack, back turned to him, Uncle asks, “Zuko, where did you get those swords from?”

You pause.

“I told you I didn’t sleep well,” you say, not moving. “Because I couldn’t sleep last night, I took a walk back to town.  I’d been thinking we should have a way to protect ourselves that isn’t firebending, so when I saw that there were a couple shops still open, I went inside, found these, and bought them.”

Silence.

When Uncle doesn’t say anything for a couple moments, you go back to looking through the pack. You take out the good-sized pouch that holds the fruit and two small bowls, then set to portioning out your food. The bag of fruit is swiftly growing lighter, but you aren’t sure when you’ll have the money to buy any more.

Behind you, you hear the soft _shink_ as Uncle unsheathes the swords. You tense, but do not turn.

“Hmmm. These look remarkably like the dual dao blades that swordsman had yesterday,” Uncle says conversationally.

“Must be made by the same blacksmith,” you say.

Only then do you turn and hold out Uncle’s bowl. He resheathes the swords and sets them aside before accepting the bowl. “Thank you, Zuko.”

 _Zuko_ , Uncle says. Not _nephew._

You bite the inside of your cheek, then say, “You’re welcome, Uncle.”

 _It doesn’t matter that he doesn’t trust me_ , you think as you watch him pour the tea.

 _It doesn’t matter what he thinks about stealing,_ you think as he hands you your cup. You thank him. The chipped cup between your hands is very warm and almost comforting. The delicate scent of jasmine is a familiar one, and even if you aren’t really a fan of tea, it feels sort of like home.

(Which is odd, considering that you rarely had jasmine tea until you began your exile with Uncle.)

You tighten your grip on your cup. You _have_ to steal. If you’re going to take care of yourself and him, you have to steal. There’s no choice. You’re taking what you need to survive.

What Uncle thinks doesn't matter.

 

 

You steal, and you steal again. It begins with food, but soon you graduate to money, to tools, and other useful things. You lose yourself in the rush of it, in the thrill of control. It’s a sort of power that you have over others; it is what you were born for, except you were born for better.

You were _made_ for better.

And, as always, your thrill fades as you remember you will never have better again. You’re stuck with this situation, this fucked up _excuse_ for a life, forever now.

Maybe if you managed to capture the Avatar somehow -

But no. Your father decided with utmost finality that he doesn’t want you anymore, that the failures he had tolerated before grew too great. At this point, you’re not even sure that bringing the Avatar to him would convince him to let you come back. Those flashes of a better life that you can snatch as the Blue Spirit - they’re all you’ll ever have again.

 

 

In the next town you come to, Uncle looks for a place to set out his mat and begging bowl.

“Uncle!” you hiss, pulling him in close as you walk. “I don’t understand why you seek to humiliate us again with begging for scraps!”

“Zuko, there is no crime in accepting the kindness of others,” he tells you. Even though he didn’t put any special emphasis on it, the word _crime_ sounds sharp to your ears.

“We don’t need to beg anymore!” you insist.

Uncle stops dead in his tracks. You go a few steps farther before stopping and turning to him.

“Ah,” he says, expression unusually hard, “Would you be so kind as to explain to me why that would be the case?”

You feel the words almost like a blow.

He definitely knows.

Of course he knows - you haven’t been entirely subtle, and even if you are the one who manages the money, he’d notice pretty quickly. Of course. 

“Fine!” you spit. You feel tense and nauseous, and anger comes quickly. “If you want to embarrass yourself again, go ahead. See if I care! But don’t expect me to stick around for it.”

With that, you storm off.

Uncle doesn’t call after you.

 

 

After that, things grow tense between you and Uncle. Not like there wasn’t tension before, but now every interaction just barely keeps from devolving further.

It doesn’t matter what he thinks. Or it shouldn’t. You have to start repeating that to yourself like a mantra every time he alludes to your recent behavior. But you can never stand it for long - the reason the two of you haven't actually been arguing is because you've been walking away at every opportunity.

You start stealing nicer and nicer things, or start buying them with the money you’ve stolen. Things Uncle would like. Dumplings. A better pack. More durable shoes. Higher quality tea. Thicker, softer blankets. A gold-gilded tea set.

You feel a bit like a groveling cat, bringing the corpses of small animals as presents, like you're saying,  _here are things to show I'm useful, to show I can be good, so tell me I'm good, okay? Tell me I'm okay, please?_

But why do you care?

You don't understand why you keep handing him the power to hurt you. Hadn't you decided never again?

So - why? Why?

You try to sleep, but the question _why_ resounds in your head and in your chest, in your heart and ears.

There is no sleep for you like this. You rise and go to fetch your mask.

 

 

You watch as Uncle inspects some of the items you’ve gotten for him recently. In particular, the expensive tea set has gotten his attention.

“Looks like you did some serious shopping,” he says, lifting the teapot. “But where did you get the money?”

You ignore the question and ask, “How do you like your new teapot?”

The gold gilding catches the light brilliantly as he turns it - you’re sure he likes it. But he sets it down and says, “To be honest with you, the best tea tastes delicious whether its made in a porcelain pot or a tin cup.”

You dig your nails into your palm.

He walks over to where you’re sitting and squats by you. His expression is softer than it has been much of the time recently. There’s sadness there, but a weary sternness too. It reminds you of his expression years ago, when he told you that your sort of person wasn’t accepted by the Fire Nation. The stinging in your heart that you feel now is very like what you felt then.

“I know we’ve had some difficult times lately. We’ve had to struggle just to get by.” He settles a hand on your shoulder. “But it is nothing to be ashamed of. There’s a simple honor in poverty.”

“What honor is there in begging?” you say, and you are ashamed to note that you sound like you’re earnestly asking the questions. “What honor is there for me without the Avatar?”

“Zuko…” Uncle sighs.

Tension runs up your spine. _Not nephew_ , you think.

“Zuko,” Uncle says again, then hesitates. His grip on your shoulder tightens, just a little. “Even if you _did_ capture the Avatar, I am not so sure it would solve our problems. Not now.”

You can hear in his voice that he’s tired of your useless, impotent insistence on the Avatar. He doesn’t believe in you, doesn’t trust you, doesn’t accept you - the proof is in what he calls you, in his exasperation.

But even so, even if it’s totally worthless at this point, the only hope you’ve had for the last few years has been the Avatar. Without that -

“Then there is no hope at all,” you say, and shrug him off. You make to get up and walk out, but Uncle grabs both of your shoulders in his hands and brings you back to sitting again. “No!”

His hands are shaking.

“No,” he repeats. “No, Zuko.”

You close your eyes rather than have to look at him.

“You must never give in to despair," Uncle says, giving you a little shake. "Allow yourself to slip down that road and you surrender to your lowest instincts.”

Lowest instincts - you’re sure he includes stealing amongst those.

“In the darkest times,” Uncle continues earnestly, “Hope is something you give yourself. _That_ is the meaning of inner strength.”

Something clicks.

You open your eyes and face Uncle.

He’s....just an ordinary old man. No special strength to offer you - just words.

You stand abruptly, ripping free of his grasp, and then you’re gone.

 

 

You walk without direction for a long time, before finding that you’ve made your way back to a nearby town. It’s the middle of the afternoon, so the streets are lively. As a town along one of main the trade routes in the Earth Kingdom, there are a number of merchants hawking goods from distant reaches. You pass a cart full of silk in a myriad of bright colors, another cart selling food from the warmer, wetter south, then yet another with flashy jewelry.

You don't pay any of them much mind. You don’t really care about any of those things.

It’s no cart that brings you to a halt. Instead, it’s a beggar in heavily patched clothes, with a dusty woven hat as a makeshift begging bowl. “Alms,” he calls in a voice as ragged as his clothing, “Alms for the poor?”

Before you’ve even thought about it, you’ve dipped a hand into your pockets and come up with a couple coins. You weigh them in your palm a moment, watching the beggar. What strength does this man have? If Uncle were right, it would be a hope he had manufactured himself. But then, if Uncle were right, this man has a certain dignity, even as he kneels barely five feet away from ostrich horse shit.

Yeah, right.

There’s no dignity in being scum. Just as strength does not come from hope - it comes from pain, from struggling to survive and make a place for yourself in the world. That’s where _your_ strength came from.

 _And suffering shall be your teacher_.

Your father was right. It has been.

You step forward and drop the coins into the beggar’s hat.

He bows, forehead touching the dirt. The stench of shit is in your nose. “Oh, thank you, thank you, sir, thank you - ”

 _Pathetic_ , you think, and walk away.

 

 

Evening is not far away by the time you return to your and Uncle’s campsite. On your way back, you had realized that you’ve known for a while what you’re going to decide to do. Really, you decided days ago. You decided when you held your dual dao swords to their former owner’s throat.

It’s been coming for a long time.

Uncle is making tea, yet again, when you arrive. You notice he is still using the cheap, broken tea pot rather than the one you got him. He looks up as you return.

You stop a little ways away from him, far out of reach.

“Uncle…” you begin, then must push yourself to go on, “I thought about what you said.”

Uncle’s expression brightens. You hadn’t realized how sad he had looked before. Yet another thing you’ve been blind to. “You did? Good, good.”

“It helped me realize something,” you say.

Uncle shifts slightly, like he wants to move towards you but won't let himself. Still, you can see the light in his eyes. He's hopeful.

You don't feel good about that. But then, you haven't felt anything good in a long time.

For a moment, you waver.

But if everything you've ever had and ever wanted is going to be ripped away from you anyway, you'd rather throw it away yourself.

You look him dead in the eyes and say, “We no longer have anything to gain from traveling together. I need to find my own way.”

Uncle’s expression shutters.

That’s more than enough pain right there. You don’t want to look at him any longer. You turn away and start to check that your pack has everything you need. He doesn't say anything, but you move quickly in case he finds something to say.

As soon as you’re satisfied, you look at Uncle one last time. His head is bowed so that you can’t see his face. The slope of his shoulders tells you call you need to know, however.

...this is the last time you’ll ever see him.

You stand still for a moment, staring at him. He doesn't move, and he doesn't say a word.

You leave. For the third consecutive time, he doesn’t call after you as you go.

 

 

Despite your decision, leaving Uncle is hard.

Each step feels more painful than the last. You think you might be ripping apart inside. All you can think of is Uncle’s bowed head, the steep slope of his shoulders.

You did this to yourself, knowing that staying would be worse, that it would give him opportunity to hurt you. He’d already decided that he didn’t want you as his nephew anymore. He no longer wanted to give someone like you anything but worthless, empty platitudes. In the face of that rejection, your insistence on continuing to call him _Uncle_ is just childish. Things were only going to get worse from there.

So you chose to leave.

It hurts. It hurts more than you thought it would.

Didn’t you want to _stop_ hurting?

If you’re going to hurt this much, then you’d rather not feel anything at all.

As soon as you think that, the hurt begins to fall away.

Then the anger.

Then the anxiety, the fear. The determination.

Distantly, you recognize this as problematic, as even the relief you feel at no longer hurting fades.

You try to cling onto your emotions and motivations with a heart that feels as numb as your hands when submerged in ice water.

But even your stupid, stubborn hope slips through your fingers.

It's all gone. There's nothing inside you but a gnawing, unidentifiable badness.

You feel - not empty, but unsatisfied. Still hungry for something.

You feel shifted out of your skin. Or like your bones are gone. You feel dead, but not quite. You feel like you're being eaten by maggot-birds.

You don't feel human. You don't feel like _Zuko._ You don't feel like anyone's nephew or son or anything.

You're no longer bound by anyone. Your heart is no longer mortal. No one has any power over you; no one can hurt you.

You're free.


	22. wandering spirit

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> OK, bit of a long author's note. Bear with me.
> 
> I'm sorry for having been gone so long - I've been having a lot of issues with depression, and it's made it very hard to write. I wanted to finish this chapter, but it took a long time, especially cause it's meant to be a counterbalance to the tone of the previous chapter (I didn't actually want to leave it on such a negative note for so long!!). I don't really know how soon future chapters will be up - hopefully more quickly than this one, but I don't know.
> 
> The comments I've been getting on this story are so nice and I appreciate them so, so much, even if I haven't been responding to them. Especially the comments about how some of you relate closely to what I've written...I know it must be rough because some of what's here is stuff that's hard, but I'm glad you've been able to connect to a story that is so close to me. I'm sure I'm not really expressing myself well, but just know that I appreciate your responses very very much!
> 
> Anyway, this chapter is basically the 'Zuko Alone' chapter, which is one of my favorite episodes from the series. Still, I thought the lessons sotfl!Zuko needs to learn are very different from those that canon!Zuko needed to learn in the original episode, so you'll find this is quite different (much less Shane-esque). You also get to see some of my headcanons for how the Earth Kingdom interacts with gender and sexuality. When I first started writing this, I came up with somewhat detailed headcanons for how each of the four nations deals with those things, so it's kinda cool that some of it gets to be more clear here. (Also, I think this is the longest chapter so far, so that's cool too.)
> 
> I hope this chapter was worth the wait, and thanks for sticking with me.

Days pass. You walk and walk with no destination in mind. You eat only when you remember, drink only when your throat aches, and sleep only when exhaustion swallows you.

You don’t talk to anyone. When you pass by others, it’s as if you don’t see them, and they don’t see you. Mutually invisible. When you do try to interact - to buy food or the like - their movements seem jerky and their voices are muffled, like you’re underwater and they’re...somewhere else.

You are...disconnected. Like your version of the world is out of sync with everyone else’s, like you are lagging a beat behind. Even your movements no longer seem to be as fluid as they once were. You feel as jagged as lightning, as unmoved as stone.

You don’t feel anything. All of your emotions seem to be gone. Even physical sensations are distant.

You wonder if this is what it’s like, to be a spirit. Truly, really, in all ways.

Buried deep, you have the nagging sense that you shouldn’t stay this way. That it’s bad somehow. That if you stay this way, you’ll lose something important.

But it seems hard to claw your way back to everyone else’s reality, and you’re tired of hard. Everything is so far away...far where it can’t hurt you. Why is that so bad? Isn’t it a good thing, that nothing can touch you?

You’re tired of being hurt.

You wish you could stay like this forever.

...you walk on.

 

 

You feel hollowed out and your stomach aches. When was the last time you saw anything more substantial than grass growing? You don’t remember.

You feel as if you’re wading through mud. Every step is a battle.

Your mouth is dry. You can’t swallow. Your head spins.

You have to keep going. You have to keep going.

But...why?

 

 

You close your eyes for a moment, and with a jolt you realize you’ve fallen to your knees. You tilt your head up, looking for what knocked you down, but you see nothing. You struggle to stand -

As soon as you’re on your feet, darkness.

 

 

You wake to the sound of humming. You don’t recognize the song; it’s not Fire Nation. The thought _that’s not right_ slowly trickles into your head and sets you on guard.

Cautiously, you slit your good eye open.

You can tell that you’re in a house. Clean, all the colors cast golden by late afternoon sunlight, but somewhat small and sparsely furnished. A woman is sitting at a low table, sewing. As she concentrates, she hums that unfamiliar song.

You’re not sure how long you watch. Your instincts keep you from drawing any attention to yourself, so you don’t move. Eventually, the light begins to fade and a figure appears at the door.

It’s another woman, who is a bit broader and more muscular than the other woman. Her hair is up in a messy bun and there is a smudge of dirt on her cheek. She strides in and gives the seated woman a kiss on the forehead. The seated woman startles and looks up, before breaking into a bright smile. “Welcome home! Oh dear, is it that late already?”

“You got carried away and forgot all about our guest, didn’t you?” the newcomer says, offering the seated woman a hand. She takes it, and the newcomer pulls her up easily to stand. They kiss.

You stare.

You have never seen two women kiss - _on the lips even -_ before. You think maybe friends might kiss each other on the forehead or cheek sometimes if they’re close, but you don’t think friends kiss each other _like that_. That’s for lovers to do, right? Or maybe the Earth Kingdom is just different?

You hadn’t ever really thought too much about it before, but as far as you know, only men and women are supposed to love each other in that way. You're not sure why that should actually be any different for two women - or two men, you guess.

(Of course, what does it mean for someone like _you_?)

You must have lost some of your guardedness in your surprise, because in that moment both women notice that you’re awake.

“How are you feeling?” the woman who had been sewing asks. She comes toward you, moving as if she wants to touch you, and you scramble backwards. She freezes.

Where in Koh’s lair are your swords?

She straightens and glances back at the other woman before turning back to you. “My name is Lanfen, and this is my...my wife, Chen.” She gestures at her, and Chen raises a hand in greeting. “She found you collapsed on the road. Can you tell us what happened to you?”

You don’t answer, instead watching warily.

After a long enough time has passed, Lanfen seems to realize that you are not going to respond. She sighs.

Chen walks over, setting a hand on Lanfen’s shoulder. “Let’s have dinner first. None of us will have a good conversation on empty stomachs.”

Lanfen nods twice, quickly. “Right. Okay. How about you wash up while I start the rice.” Chen pats her shoulder and leaves again. Then Lanfen looks to you. “Would you like some water?”

Again you don’t answer.

Lanfen bites her lip, then says, “Well, I’m sure you’re dehydrated, so I’ll get you some anyway. I’ll be just a moment.”

As she walks away, you look around, taking in the parts of the room you hadn’t been able to see before. You spot your swords leaning against a wooden chest, across the room. Before you can move to pick them up, Lanfen is back. Wordlessly, she hands you a cup of water.

You take it. Your throat works. You can’t seem to remember what to say or how to speak. The words are there, but they are hard to find.

Agni, your mouth is dry. You hadn’t realized quite how dry. You take a sip of water, and then you remember. Lanfen has already moved across the room, setting a pot over the fire, when you manage to say quietly, “Thanks.”

She turns to look at you, obviously surprised, before smiling. “You’re very welcome.”

 

 

Dinner is a quiet, comfortable affair. The meal is rice with vegetables, which Lanfen and Chen had cooked together. As you eat, Chen tells Lanfen about how their gardens are coming along. In turn, Lanfen tells her about what she’s planning to sew for her latest commission. You can see that both care very much about what the other has to say.

...it’s nice. You can’t remember the last time you had a hot meal.

But dinner can’t last forever. Eventually, Chen turns to you and asks, “We’re aren’t going to push you on anything, okay? You don’t have to answer anything you don’t want to. But it would help us out if we knew what to call you. What’s your name?”

You know you can’t answer honestly, not with a name like yours, so obviously the hiss and crackle of a fire. So you cast about for a fake name, one you’ve used before...and you remember a scene that seems distant and faded now, where you were - you were afraid for someone, and you called yourself -

“Lee.”

“Welcome to our home, Lee,” Lanfen says, smiling. “We are happy to have you here as long as you need to stay.”

Chen nods. “On that point, are you a refugee?”

_Not really_. You don't answer.

“Did you run away from somewhere? Did someone hurt you?”

You bite the inside of your cheek.

“Did someone from your family hurt you?”

You can’t help but to stiffen a little, to clench and unclench your hands.

“Fuck,” Chen whispers, and looks away. She’s scowling at the floor, as if she can see someone she hates.

“Lee, you have to know, we’ll do our best to keep you safe. We’ll protect you,” Lanfen says.

“Yeah,” Chen says, looking at you again. She rests a hand on Lanfen’s shoulder. “It doesn’t matter if it’s all the armies of the world or if it’s some very specific bastards, but we’ll protect you. We don’t allow people to hurt kids, no matter what.”

It’s laughable, to think that these two women, neither soldiers nor benders, can protect you from all that chases you. And yet, they’re so earnest about it, so confident, that you can almost believe it’s true. You can almost believe that they can protect you.

It’s foolhardy, but you almost - _almost_ - feel safe.

“Besides!” Lanfen says with somewhat forced cheer, “We should know all about standing against people who hurt others, especially for things they can’t control.”

“Seriously,” Chen says with a sigh, rubbing her shoulder. “Y’know Lee, we thought about going to Kyoshi Island, but it’s far. Besides, while it might be safer, I think it’s good for regular folk to remember that we exist.”

You tilt your head, not understanding.

“Oh, you don't know?” Lanfen asks. “Kyoshi was the last Earth Avatar, but she had a troubled relationship with the Earth Kingdom because she loved other women. She split Kyoshi Island off from the mainland in order to protect people like her, like us. Even to this day, Kyoshi Island is a safe haven and home to our sort.”

Kyoshi Island.

Sparks fly in your vision. The world whirls.

You taste the ash of Kyoshi Island on your tongue. You taste the ash of Kyoshi’s statue on your tongue. You remember watching her statue fall, her fans reduced to cinders, her paint peeling away in long, darkening strips -  and you felt, you felt _vindicated_. You felt right.

You felt good because you destroyed the safety of people like Chen and Lanfen. You're in their home, and so far they've been kind to you.

...you’re shaking. Why? You curl in on yourself. Why should it matter that they would think you a monster? Weren’t things like that not supposed to hurt anymore? You thought you had finally become free. Why, after mere hours, is your spirit-numbness dissipating? You were supposed to forget how to feel forever. Why are you hurting? You want - you want -

You want to be _safe_. But you -

“Lee? Shit, kid, are you alright?” Chen asks.

You don’t answer, can’t answer. A shadow falls across your face. Your head snaps up. You see -

A face lit by fire.  A hand, reaching toward you.

“Don’t touch me!” you snarl, the first sentence you've been able to form in lifetimes, slapping the hand away. You scramble backwards, breathing hard and fast.

Chen watches you, arm still outstretched. The fire they had cooked dinner over crackles and snaps merrily. Its light dances across her stricken expression.

Lanfen sets her tea down and stands, her back to the fire. She walks toward you, towering over you, her face cast in shadow. You ready yourself to block a blow.

But then she kneels beside you and her expression is concerned. “Lee,” she says quietly, “You're safe here. We won't touch you if it makes you uncomfortable. But I think you're panicking. Can you take a deep breath for me?”

You stare at her, your breaths still too fast. You don't understand. Violence is always met with violence; why isn't she hurting you? Only one person didn't hurt you back when you hurt them, but you can't remember, can't remember who -

“Breathe with me, Lee,” Lanfen instructs. “In, two, three, four, five. Out, two, three, four, five.”

She repeats the instructions a few times as you attempt to match your breaths to the sound of her voice. It's a struggle at first, but eventually you start to calm down.

Out of the corner of your eye, you can see the fire flare with each inhalation and subside with each exhalation. Thankfully both women are watching you, not the fire, so they don't notice.

...this is the most you’ve firebended in a long time.

You hadn’t realized, but you now feel a little more...present. A little more a part of the real world. More human, less spirit.

You’re not sure you like it.

 

 

“Hey, Lee, do you want to help me with the weeding?”

You glance up at the sound of Chen’s voice. As she looks at you expectantly, you nod hesitantly. You’ve never weeded before. You’re not even sure what it is. But you stand up anyway and follow her outside.

Outside Lanfen and Chen’s house is a good-sized plot of plants. Each neat row is a different variety of vegetable or herb, but you can only name a few. Chen strides confidently in front you, leading you to the leftmost side of the field. It shames you to have to ask, but you force the question out of your mouth: “What...do I do?”

“Not a farming family, huh?” Chen asks cheerfully. “Here, I’ll show you.”

She crouches down by a squat line of bok choy, and gestures for you to join her. You crouch slowly, your hands on your knees.

“You see here, this is the plant we want to grow, but these little plants all around it are weeds.” Chen points, and sure enough, there are smaller green sprouts all around the base of the bok choy. “The weeds will take nutrition away from the vegetables we’re trying to grow, so we need to pull ‘em up.”

She demonstrates, taking hold of one the weed’s stem and tugging upward in one, sharp movement. Little bits of soil rain down from its fragile, exposed roots.

“Now you try.”

You reach out to grasp one of the weeds and tug it up, but the stem snaps in your hand, leaving the roots still underground.

“Not bad, but…”

Chen slowly moves to take your hand and guide it to another weed and downward, to the lowest visible part of the stem. “Like this. You need to grasp it down here so that the roots come up too, or else it’ll come back much sooner.”

With her, you pull the weed up, and this time you don’t break it.

Chen grins at you. “Great. You think you’re good to go?”

You nod.

It’s clean, cathartic work, pulling weeds. With each tug, the ugly, restless tension under your skin dissipates, bit by bit. You can do something good, something that helps useful plants grow. It makes you warm in a way the sun doesn’t, even as the fires of Kyoshi haunt your footsteps.

 

 

That night, after you’ve cleaned the soil from under your nails, your fingertips still ache. All your calluses are from swords and pens; all in the wrong places for the work you've been doing. Even so, when Lanfen beckons you over and asks if you want to help with her sewing, you come. You don’t like accepting charity - it’s uncomfortable, humiliating. So while you’re here you need to repay them.

You kneel beside her, silent.

“Have you sewn before?”

You shake your head in response.

“Well, any time is a good time to learn!” Lanfen says, and begins to guide you through a simple stitch that she tells you is good for joining together different pieces of cloth or mending tears.

Even though she teaches as well as Chen did earlier, the work is trickier, requiring a fine motor precision that you just don’t seem to possess. You keep pricking your fingers, and even when you manage to make a line of stitches, they are messy and uneven, with many stitches much too large. Nothing at all like Lanfen’s immaculate lines of tiny stitches, so neat that they’re like rows of soldiers marching.

Why can’t you do _anything_ right?

After jamming the needle into your thumb for the umpteenth time, you growl in frustration and slam the cloth you’ve been working on down. You jump up, stumbling just slightly on numb feet, and pace a few agitated steps.

“Lee!” Lanfen cries, surprised. “What’s wrong?”

“I just - ” you spit before losing the words. Growling in frustration again, you wave your arm at the cloth crumpled on the floor. Lanfen’s eyes are wide as her gaze flicks between you and your work. After a moment, she picks it up and inspects it. Then she leans back a little.

“Lee,” she says slowly, “Are you upset because you don’t think your work is good enough?”

A sick sense of shame squeezes your gut. You nod jerkily.

“You’re just beginning! This is _perfect_ work for your first time.”

You jab your nails into your palms. You can’t bear to be patronized. Not knowing if you mean your efforts or yourself, you snarl, “Worthless!”

Lanfen sets the cloth down in her lap. She takes a slow, deep breath. “Okay. Well, can you please sit by me? We can’t have a conversation with you standing over there.”

Reluctantly, you step over and sit next to her again. You stare at your hands.

“Lee, please look at me.”

Even more reluctantly than before, you look up at her. Her expression is solemn, but earnest. “You need to listen to me, okay? Anything you do, any effort you make, even when it doesn’t turn out well, isn’t worthless, okay? It’s learning. You’re _learning_. You’re allowed to - to make mistakes, or have it not go well. That you’ve done this much, that you’ve done anything at all - that’s good. It’s something to be proud of.”

You don’t answer, already staring at your hands again. You _know_ it’s not enough. It’s not good enough.

“I’m proud of you.”

You jerk your head up in shock.

Lanfen doesn't notice your expression. She is already turning away, calling to Chen, who thus far has been quiet, “Chen, what do you think of Lee’s work today?”

Chen looks up from her book, and takes a moment as if considering the question. Then she smiles at you and says, “You did a lot of good work today. I appreciate it. Thank you, Lee.”

You can’t help the flush on your cheeks even as you think, _those words are not for me_.

“Anyway,” Lanfen says, “We can try this again tomorrow. You’ve learned a lot today, and I’m sure tomorrow will go better.”

“Okay,” you say softly, not sure you believe.

 

 

You draw your swords from their sheath, early morning sunlight falling on your shoulders and glinting on the blades. You have an odd hesitation, holding them, now. You breathe. Inhale, and exhale.

Despite using this set of dual dao blades for a while, this is the first time you’ve ever done your katas with them. You’re not sure why you haven’t done so before. Katas are important for learning a weapon, for learning yourself.

So, why…?

You sweep the swords through the air, following your arms’ movements with careful, sliding steps. You move smoothly through offensive moves, defensive moves, moves that can deflect an oncoming blow and create an opening. As you warm up, as your body remembers the forms you had half-forgotten, you move more quickly. Soon, you can go fast again, your swords dancing, sunlight flashing on the edges, like a flickering fire.

It’s been such a long, long time.

 

 

A few days pass like this. You get better at the tasks Chen and Lanfen ask of you, though your improvement still seems frustratingly slow. You are able to talk a little more, without feeling quite so much like your mouth is too dry to speak. You run through your sword katas, movements more smooth and sure every time. You can feel yourself settling into an easy routine, but you can’t help the nagging sense that something is missing. You’ve forgotten something important. You’re restless.

But you - you don’t want to remember. You don’t want to go. If you do, you’ll lose the last vestiges of your comforting numbness. You'll feel too much again.

Yet sometimes you watch Chen and Lanfen talk, and it - it looks so _easy_. They make it look so easy. You’re not sure you want quite what they have (you think you’d be overwhelmed as you are now), but that _ease_ , that _connection_ \- didn’t you have that once? Why can’t you remember? You didn’t want to be hurt anymore, but what did you let yourself forget?

At night, you curl tightly into yourself and try to believe that you’re whole.

You feel - oh, you feel so achingly empty.

What did you lose?

 

 

It’s over a simple lunch of rice with Chen and Lanfen that Chen says, “Now, remember, we’re not going to make you answer anything you don’t want to, but I think we know each other a little better now, so I want to ask again. Lee, did you run away from somewhere?”

You don’t say anything.

“Did you have anywhere you were planning to go?”

You think of the endless road, and walking, walking. Wandering, restlessly. With a mouth suddenly dry again, you answer, “No. There’s nowhere.”

“You don’t have anyone, any friends or family, who might be looking out for you?”

“No. No one can accept me,” you say, haltingly. “There’s - there’s too much.”

“Why don’t you try us, kid? We might surprise you - ‘course, we’re pretty accepting folk.”

You stare at them for a moment, at Lanfen who told you that you were always welcome with them, no matter how long you needed to stay, at Chen who told you they’d protect you from anything, even if they had to take on the armies of both the Earth Kingdom and Fire Nation combined. What you’ve gotten so far from them is miraculous - but there’s no way that two Earth Kingdom women would ever continue to extend kindness to someone like you.

You already know that kindness is transient - you should just prove it to them as well.

“Fine,” you say, jumping up. You clench and unclench your hands, feeling driven by some anxious, frenetic energy, by adrenaline. (If it’s going to disappear, you’d rather break it yourself.) “I’ll show you.”

You grab your swords and head to the door. You can hear them following, but you don’t look back.

As soon as you step outside, the glare of the high midday sun hits you, blinding. You have to blink a few times against the stinging in your eyes.

“Stand back,” you warn before striding forward, away from them.

You shouldn’t have let yourself forget. No one can accept you. Not when you -

You remember the trail of your mother’s skirt as she walked past the lily ponds where the turtleducks splashed about, the trail of her hair, falling past her shoulder as she leaned down to kiss your forehead, fading into darkness as she disappeared into the night, you remember…

The light and the flash in your father’s eyes as he reached for you, blinding, burning, as he hurt you and exiled you because he loved you, because he didn’t love you, because you were unlovable, you remember…

Fire, that almost comforting flare of heat on your skin, as you spin, extending your swords outwards to create a wheel of flame around you. This firebending that is more yours than anyone’s, steel and heat combined. Your father and your sister, they would call it weakness to need to use a physical weapon to augment your bending, but it’s not, is it? It’s resourcefulness, the strength you’ve gained from suffering.

You had forgotten, had distanced yourself from this. From who you are, from feeling. From pain, but also from anything that _didn’t_ hurt.

Perhaps it’s good that you found it again, but not now. Not when Chen and Lanfen stare at you like this, eyes wide.

They look scared. Of you. Of when you are yourself again.

“I am Zuko,” you tell them quietly. You sweep your swords around you, fire still playing on the edges. Smoke lingers in the air. You have to fight past the lump in your throat to continue speaking, which you do with a bitter twist to your mouth: “ _Son_ of Ursa and Fire Lord Ozai. Prince of the Fire Nation, and heir to the throne.”

You sheathe your swords and let your arms fall to your sides. You wait.

You wonder if this is what you were meant for, to destroy every scrap of belonging you manage to cobble together with your own hands. You're like a wildfire unchecked.

Chen and Lanfen are looking at each other. You get the sense that they are having an urgent discussion, but neither of them say a word. Then, looking directly into your eyes, Lanfen says, “You aren’t with the Fire Nation for a reason. Things you have no control over - your family, your heritage - give us no reason to turn you away.”

Chen nods and says, “You’re always going to be welcome here, Zuko.”

You shake your head. “No! You, you don't understand.” The words tumble out of you. You can't stop yourself. You always have to destroy things. “I burned Kyoshi Island.”

Their expressions turn to cold, numb shock.

It’s Chen who collects herself first. She steps forward, hands open, palms facing you. “I don’t see it, that a kid that helped me grow things could burn Kyoshi Island. I don’t see it.”

Driven by frantic, frenetic, energy, you hiss, “I _made_ Kyoshi burn. I turned her statue to ash. It was - I felt - ”

“ _Stop!”_

You halt, flinching back at the unexpected shout.

Lanfen breathes heavily, her hands fisted in her skirt, knuckles starkly white. Her shoulders, her knees, are shaking. You think she might fall, and you almost step forward to steady her.

Almost.

“Lee - _Zuko_ , stop,” she says, voice rough. “You’re only hurting yourself now, and you don’t need to do that.”

Chen settles a broad hand on Lanfen’s upper arm and gives a squeeze. Lanfen appears to take comfort in the contact; she manages to straighten up a bit, but she doesn’t lose her death grip on her skirt. She swallows, then says shakily, “We all can do - can do _horrible_ things, but that doesn’t have to define us all our lives. We can move forward. B-burning Kyoshi Island is more horrible than most, but you can move beyond that. And I - I think you already have. Or begun to. I don’t - no, I can’t, I can’t believe you’re the same as you were when you - when you did that. You’ve been - you’ve been _making_ things!”

Seemingly spent, Lanfen buries her face in Chen’s shoulder. You’re afraid she might be crying. You’re afraid _you_ might cry, and you’re not sure why.

None of this makes sense. You don’t understand. Are - are they -

“You’re still welcome here,” Chen says.

Are they _forgiving_ you?

“Why?” you can’t help but ask. “I - ”

Chen glances down at Lanfen, drawing her arm around the shorter woman’s shoulders. Then she looks at you again. “You, the boy who’s staying here, the boy I met - ”

The word _boy_ stings, just like always.

“ - you’ve been largely polite, if quiet. Willing to help with the plants or the sewing, even though that isn’t men’s work. Never responded with any cruelty or disgust even knowing that we’re in a relationship. I don’t see any reason to turn that boy away.”

_But I’m not a boy_ , you think. _You could still turn me away._

But you’ve kept that silence for so long that you can’t bring yourself to say it now, not in the face of this kindness, as undeserved you know it is. Agni, you wish you could just accept what they offer you, it’s so great and warm and overwhelming -

You can just barely hear Lanfen’s soft voice, saying, “I’m going to make tea.”

“Ah, Lanfen’s famous cure-all,” Chen says in a cheery tone, as if trying to recapture the lightness that was lost by your firebending demonstration. She catches your eye and winks. “Tea cures every ill, whether it’s an upset stomach or an upsetting day.”

“It works,” Lanfen murmurs. She brings her head up to give Chen a kiss before stepping away. Only now does she release her skirt. To you she says, “You can come in and sit down.”

She heads inside their little house. Chen follows, but stops to hold the door open for you. You hesitate for what feels like a long, long time before walking towards her. You pause before entering the house. You look at her - you feel as if there’s something you should say, but you don’t know what it is. You settle for a quick nod, and you go inside.

Meanwhile, Lanfen has already set some water to boil. As you watch, she opens the small, wooden cupboard where they keep their tea set. She reaches for the teapot. Her fingers have just curled around its handle when you can see that her hands are shaking too badly to hold the teapot.

“Here, let me do it,” Chen says, hurrying over to grab the teapot before Lanfen can drop it. Lanfen’s shoulders hitch upward, and she stares at the floor.

“Hey.” Chen bends a little so she can catch Lanfen’s gaze, looking up at her a little cajolingly. Chen tells her softly, “It’ll be okay. Why don’t you go sit down, and I’ll get the tea ready?”

Lanfen jerks. She nods jerkily, scrubbing her hands over her face. “Yes. Okay. I’ll do that. Okay.”

“It’ll be okay,” Chen repeats, pressing her lips to Lanfen’s forehead.

Lanfen nods again. She comes over and takes a seat near you, but with a fair amount of space between you and her. You follow suit, sitting near her but not close. You set your swords in their sheath by your side.

Lanfen closes her eyes and takes a few deep breaths, to that same slow count she demonstrated back on your first day with them. Then she opens her eyes and attempts to give you a wobbly smile. “I - I’m sorry. I just need - I just need time.” She closes her eyes again. “I’ve...had some bad experiences. I just need time.”

You don’t know what to say, so you don’t say anything at all. You just bow your head, even though she can no longer see.

With nothing but the sounds of Chen making tea and the soft crackle of the fire, you close your eyes and breathe slowly, trying to find the calm of meditation. True calm is elusive, but you feel a little less agitated than before.

In what seems like almost no time at all, a soft voice says, “Here. But careful, it’s probably pretty hot.”

You open your eyes to see Chen, handing you a cup of tea. You take it, murmuring gratitude. Warmth blossoms in your hands where skin meets porcelain. The delicate scent of jasmine wafts upwards. It smells like home, which is odd because you really only have had jasmine tea often since you were exiled.

A couple drops of water plop into the tea. No, not water - you’re crying. You hear someone asking what’s wrong, but you’re not really paying attention.

“Oh,” you murmur, “This is Uncle’s favorite tea.”

Your hands are trembling, much like Lanfen’s had just moments ago. You hastily set the cup down and reach up to scrub at the tears, willing them to go away. Crying has always been awful, but now you’re crying in front of other people. That’s infinitely worse.

“I left him. I left him. I shouldn’t have left. How long - I need to go back.”

You start to rise but firm hands grasp your shoulders. You freeze. Chen immediately lets go, almost as if she hadn’t thought before grabbing you. “Lee - sorry, Zuko - what are you talking about? Who did you leave?”

Your hands slide upward into hair that still feels too short. A tear drops off the end of your nose. “My uncle. We were fighting and I left. I shouldn’t’ve. Now I don’t know if he’s okay or where - and he’s all, he’s all I have.”

Too honest.

“Did he hurt you?” You shake your head, but Lanfen only asks again, louder, rougher, more insistently, “Did he hurt you?”

“No!” you snap, the tears finally slowing, ceasing. You scrub at your face again. “No, he’s always been - no.”

Chen glances between the two of you, looking almost torn. “Okay, okay. What can we do? If you need to go back to him, do you know where he is? Is he looking for you?”

You shake your head. Then you take a somewhat ragged breath. You have a purpose again, if only for the short term. The surety of that centers you, it grounds you. In as sure a voice as you can muster, you say, “I can find him.” 

"Zuko - "

“Thanks for your hospitality, but I need to leave.” You start to stand again.

This time Chen doesn’t stop you, but she says, “Okay, but wait until morning. It’s late to start a journey today.”

Considering this, you nod. “Alright. I’ll leave tomorrow.”

It's a little awkward, but you sit down again. You pick up your tea before Chen can replace it. It's still warm. You take a sip. Jasmine, with just the faintest hint of saltwater.

 

 

That evening, as you sew with Lanfen for the final time, she says, “You’re not leaving because of me, are you?”

“Hah?” You can feel your eyebrows jump together in confusion.

“No, I mean - hmm.” Lanfen hesitates, biting her lip, before continuing, “It just seems sudden. I don’t want my reaction to - to be what makes you leave. We - _I_ want you here as long as you want to be here.”

You pause. Your stitches are still ugly and uneven, but under Lanfen’s guidance they’ve become close enough to be serviceable. You could mend things now, although you don’t your needlework will ever look particularly good. “No. I need to go back to Uncle. I didn’t want to think about it. I didn’t let myself. I don’t even know if he wants me back, but I - I have to try.”

“Okay,” Lanfen says, voice terribly soft. “Okay.”

 

 

Early the next morning, you stand outside with Chen and Lanfen. Your dual dao swords are in their sheath, resting on your hip. All your other things are gathered and packed in your satchel.  Chen and Lanfen have insisted on giving you more supplies for your journey. You protested the extra charity, but Chen had told you that it was their custom to accept kindness from one by paying that same kindness forward to another. You’re not sure if that’s an Earth Kingdom thing or a Chen and Lanfen thing, but it sounds like something of which Uncle would approve.

...it’s been a while since you’ve done anything of which he’d approve.

Lanfen presses a box of loose leaf tea into your hands. “Jasmine,” she tells you. “You can make it for your uncle.”

You think of all the scorched tea you’ve made and try not to grimace. You slip the box into your pack. Then you bow, holding your hands in the Fire Nation way. You straighten. It takes a moment to find the words you want. “Thank you. So much. For - for everything.”

For offering you their home, for giving you time, for teaching you, for extending a forgiveness and a kindness that you did nothing to deserve. For the tea, even.

Chen clasps a gentle hand on your shoulder. “You’re always welcome here. I promise.”

“Thank you,” you say again. You settle your hat over your head and bow again before walking away.

You’ll find Uncle. You know you can.


	23. crossfire

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Remember, it'll all be okay.
> 
> Also, sorry this chapter is on the shorter end. The next one will be somewhat long and I think it'll take some time to write, so.

You come across an endless line of violently churned earth. A shudder runs through you. These are machine tracks, and only the Fire Nation has advanced machines. Worse, from the size of the tracks you can tell that the machine must be huge, which only extremely important persons would have. Either a general is here, or a member of the royal family is.

_ Azula _ .

You’re sure it’s her.  Who else? Who else would have the gall to rip through the heart of Earth Kingdom country, without any evidence of supporting troops?

You kneel to touch the tracks, fingers darkened by upturned soil. You wonder,  _ Is she here for me? _

But no, that doesn’t make any sense. For one thing, Azula has no idea where you are. For another, she definitely doesn’t need a machine this big to take you down - there’s no need to expend those sorts of resources on  _ you _ .

So she must be here for the Avatar.

You stand and follow the line with your gaze. A part of you still hopes that maybe if you capture the Avatar, you’ll be able to go home.

But that’s foolish. Home - the Fire Nation - is gone.

You start to follow the tracks. You have a feeling that wherever Azula and the Avatar end up, Uncle may be as well. He has a good sense for these sorts of things. Even if he isn’t there, you have exactly zero compunctions about getting in Azula’s way.

 

 

“Do you really want to fight me?”

At the sound of Azula’s voice, you quicken your pace. You burst forward, taking in Azula and the Avatar. The boy shrieks in surprise, but Azula only smiles, sharp and slow.

“Yes, I really do.”

You don't trust the Avatar as far as you can throw him, but Azula is the much greater threat. You keep one sword trained on the Avatar, but you turn most of your attention to Azula.

“ _ Swords _ , Zuzu?” she asks, and laughs at you. The Avatar snickers, likely at that stupid fucking nickname. “Your firebending truly is even more pathetic than I thought, if you need a crutch like _that_. I'm sure that's why you took so long to show up.”

“Shut up,” you snarl.

But Azula only laughs again, and the fight begins.

It's chaotic and confusing. Half the time you barely know if you're aiming at Azula or the Avatar. The swords are better than fire blasts for deflecting attacks, so you're grateful you decided to use them even though Azula disparages them. Doubly grateful in a situation like this, where you are up against two much more powerful benders.

But you can't hold your own forever - one of Azula’s raging hot blue fireballs propels you into a wall.

The air is driven forcefully from your lungs and you struggle desperately to breathe. For a moment you're afraid you're drowning again. But no, the wind is just knocked out of you. 

It seems to take a decade before you can breathe enough to try sitting up again. As you do, a hand appears in your field of vision. It's wrinkly with broad fingers with blunt nails and scars on the knuckles.

You look up, heart leaping into your throat. “Uncle.”

“Get up,” he orders. You take his hand and he pulls you up. For a moment you waver, standing next to him, but there's no time for niceties when Azula is still around. He sets off and you follow, giving chase to your sister.

Even the Avatar’s team has shown up by now, though you notice a girl who wasn’t there before. Between you, Uncle, and the Avatar and his group, you have Azula cornered.

And it’s when they are cornered that beasts are at their most ferocious.

“Well, look at this. Enemies and traitors, all working together.” Azula raises her hands, apparently surrendering. You don’t trust her for an instant. “I know when I’m beaten. You got me. A princess surrenders with honor.”

You scowl at that last jab and tighten your grip on your swords. Uncle shifts next to you.

It happens in an instant. You see - 

Azula smirks - 

Uncle inhales -

Azula moves - 

_ Fire _ -

And Uncle - 

Uncle falls.


	24. intersection

And Uncle falls, burning.

You scream. You scream, you scream, you scream.

You move without thinking, sending a hot blast of flame Azula’s way, only vaguely recognizing that the Avatar’s group is attacking as well. A clash, an explosion of elements - wind buffets your hair as you fall to your knees next to Uncle’s body. Your swords clatter on the earth next to you.

You can’t quite bring yourself to touch him, to check and know for sure if he is alive or dead. If he’s - if he’s dead, you don’t want to know. You don’t want to know.

Agni, why are you so worthless? Are you destined to lose  _ everything _ ? 

You wail, not quite crying but angry, fisting your hands in your too-short hair.

Worthless, worthless, worthless. You were too late to show him that you could be something better.

You hear movement behind you, approaching footsteps, an insistent voice saying, “Zuko, I can help.”

“ _ Leave! _ ” your roar, whirling, a great arc of fire following your movement. The Avatar’s group jumps back, and a couple look like they’d be happy enough to go.

You breath hard. Agni, you can’t let yourself cry.

But the Avatar doesn’t leave. Instead, he takes a step forward before crouching, so he isn’t standing any higher than you. He holds out his hands in a placating way. “Zuko, you can - you can trust me, right? I didn’t say anything. You’d know if I did, so you can trust me that much, right?”

The Water Tribe boy asks, “Aang, what are you talking about?”

But the Avatar ignores him and continues talking to you. “Katara - she can heal, she can heal him. If you have to think about it this way, I’m paying you back for rescuing me from Zhao, okay?”

“I didn’t do that for you,” you say automatically. But that was a kindness, of a sort, even if you didn’t mean it that way. And the Avatar is offering to pay that forward and back to you. Chen and Lanfen taught you that kindness; it seems too soon to turn your back on that.

And it’s Uncle. You’d do anything for Uncle.

This is the Avatar, the boy who hates you, who asked once to be your friend. Who hasn’t betrayed your secrets.

Your thoughts seem to move too slow, like the melting of winter ice in the north. But finally, it all trickles into place.

“Fine,” you say softly. 

“Really?!” the Avatar chirps. 

“Really?!” a couple members of his group parrot.

“Really,” you confirm. Feeling too vulnerable, you ask, “And - and you can heal him? You can for sure heal him?”

“Katara?” the Avatar asks.

The waterbender girl steps forward. “I’ve trained for it. I can do it. I know I can.” 

“Fine,” you say again. You take a couple deep breaths, trying to at least  _ appear  _ calmer.

“You need to help me take his shirt off,” the girl - Katara, you guess - says.

You nod. You need to mend the shirt anyway. You have some green thread and a couple needles from Lanfen, so you think you'll be able to fix it enough that Uncle won't have to deal with a draft on top of everything else.

You help her lift Uncle up to a sitting position. Feeling his light breaths is reassuring. You hold him and she lifts his shirt up and off.

You suck your breath in through your teeth at the sight of the wound.

Katara sets the shirt aside and as soon as you lay Uncle down again, you take it. Clutching the shirt in your hands, you watch anxiously as she opens her pouch of water. You must be too close, because her shoulders suddenly tense and she snaps at you, “I can’t heal him if you loom over me like that!” 

“Come on, Zuko,” the Avatar says.

He doesn’t take your hand, but he reaches towards it before seeming to think better of it. Instead he motions for you to follow him and leads you over to where the boy and the younger girl are standing. The Avatar walks right up to them and you follow his lead, standing nearby but not close to anyone, Uncle’s shirt still held tightly in your hands.

They all stare at you.

The silence stretches.

Could they all stop  _ looking _ at you already?

“So…” you say slowly, casting about for a lifeline after being shooed away from Uncle’s side. “Um. She’s Katara?”

“Seriously?” the Water Tribe boy shrieks. “You’ve been chasing us for months and you don’t even know our names?”

“I wasn’t chasing  _ you _ , I was chasing the Avatar,” you say pointedly. But then you have to admit, a little shamefacedly, “Though I don’t know his name either.”

“I can’t believe this. I can’t believe I’m doing this. Crap. Okay. I’m Sokka.” And with that, the Water Tribe boy - Sokka - sticks his hand out for you to shake. 

You stand there, staring at him for a moment, before gingerly reaching out and shaking his hand. “Zuko.”

“Yeah, I know,” Sokka grumbles. It’s a relief to let go of his hand.

“Me next,” the short Earth Kingdom girl announces. She also sticks out her hand, but she does it without looking at you. For a moment, you’re irritated - and then you realize she’s blind. You of all people aren’t about to comment on another’s visual impairment. “I’m Toph, the greatest earthbender in the world. Your Uncle’s a cool guy.”

“Yeah,” you say, shaking her hand with only slightly fewer reservations than you had with Sokka. “He is.”

You choose carefully not to comment on her claim - for all you know, the Avatar really has found the strongest earthbender in the world.

Finally, the Avatar himself steps up to you, smiling shyly. “Aang,” he says. “I didn’t realize you didn’t know.”

With a bewildered feeling that the world has gone absolutely surreal, you shake the Avatar’s - Aang’s - hand. You try to drop his hand as quickly as possible but Aang just keeps on shaking your hand.

“My flying bison is named Appa! He's shedding, so he's a little grumpy right now, otherwise I'd have you meet him too.”

“I am  _ not  _ about to befriend your damn bison,” you snap. With that, you wrench your hand back.

“Hey, hey, hey. Hey man.” You flinch and curl your lip at Sokka, who steps toward you, hands up and open. A symbol of peace that only works for non benders.  “Let's break it up and play nice for as long as we have to, okay?”

“Fine,” you mutter.

“Great.”

And the silence stretches again. Eventually you get fed up with being ogled at and you take the sewing kit Lanfen gave you out of the pack at your hip. You pick out a gray-green thread that matches Uncle’s shirt the best, then take out a needle. It takes a few attempts to thread the needle but before you get frustrated enough to melt the needle you manage to be successful.

Aware of eyes on you, you set to clumsily mending Uncle’s shirt. Sewing might be peasants’ work, but you’ve realized lately how important that work is. There is more to life than strategizing and war-making, or even the drudgery of working on a ship. There is honor to all important work, even if you can never truly regain yours by returning to the position you were meant to have. There is no honor for you without the recognition of your family and your throne. There is no honor for you without the Avatar.

Speak of the face-stealer, the Avatar himself comes by to crouch beside you. He chirps, “What are you doing?”

“What does it look like I’m doing?” you grumble.

“I didn’t realize you could sew.”

You jab your finger with the needle. Rather than debase yourself by sucking your stinging finger, you soldier on, sewing jerkily. “Not. Well.”

“Soooo…”

“Spit it out!”

“Sorry! Um. Are you still going to try to capture me?” Aang asks.

“I don’t know,” you answer honestly. “Not today.”

“Well, okay. That’s not a great answer, but it’s not a bad one, I guess.”

“Don't expect anything better,” you tell him sharply. “Today we may have a truce because Katara is helping my uncle, but you are still the greatest threat to my nation and I can't forget that.”

Aang waves his hands, protesting, “Zuko, I'm not - ”

“You want my father dead.”

Aang freezes, drops his hands. “Wait. No, I - ”

“And if even if you don't, which I don't believe, your companions do. Face it, Avatar. We're not friends. We can't ever be.”

And so heavy on your tongue you can't say them are the words  _ So why did you ever want to be? _

But you will get no answer to questions you can’t ask.

Moments later, Katara’s voice draws you away from Aang’s solemn face. 

“It's done!” she calls. “He'll be okay.”

You drop your sewing and rush to where she kneels by Uncle. The wound is just a faint scar now. You rest your hand on his chest. Already you can tell that his breathing is easier.

“When will he wake up?” you demand.

Katara stifles a yawn. “Sooner than I will, once I get a chance to sleep. Um, maybe an hour or two? It won’t be very long.”

“Okay,” you say. You turn to see that the rest of the Avatar’s crew have gathered, Aang at the forefront. Sokka slips forward to offer his sister a hand, and he pulls her up on shaky legs. “Okay.”

Smoothly you move between them and Uncle, just as Aang says, “So, um, yeah! This has been great, I guess.”

“Thank you,” you say. You drop to your knees to bow, pressing your head down to the earth. “I will pay this kindness forward.”

Katara’s voice, surprised: “You - ”

“But you better stay  _ the fuck _ away from us because the next time I see you, I don't know what I will do,” you say, tone dark. You rise swiftly, uncomfortable showing weakness, even honorable weakness, to those you still consider enemies. Not that it would be any better if you were friends, but still. And not that you ever  _ could  _ be friends.

Stop thinking about it.

The Avatar: “Zuko - ”

“Now  _ go! _ ” you roar, smoke billowing past your lips. All of the Avatar’s crew except the blind girl scramble backwards.

“That's a real nice thank you!” Sokka shouts. He grabs his sister’s arm and pulls her away with him. Toph and the Avatar follow a beat behind. You watch with mixed feelings as they climb onto the bison and fly away.

Then you go collect your sewing before kneeling by Uncle, and you wait for him to wake.


	25. lightning

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sigh, these two.
> 
> Anyway, sorry for being gone, I'll try to post a little more often then I've been doing!

A soft murmur, after ages of waiting. You jolt fully awake, unaware you had been dozing.

“Lu Ten…” Uncle mumbles. You can barely understand his words, but when you do your stomach drops uncomfortably. There are tears on his eyelashes. “I will see you again….”

“Uncle,” you call, a little more sharply than you intended. Uncle startles in his slumber and begins to wake. You wait until his eyes are blearily open before you continue, “Uncle. You were unconscious. Azula did this to you.”

He groans and holds out his hand. You take it and help him to sit up. “Somehow, I am not surprised…”

He trails off into silence and seems to wait for something from you.

A little lost, you cast about for something to do. “Right! Uh, I hope I made this the way you like it.”

The tea you made has long since cooled, but you heat it up with a puff of hot breath. “Here.” You hand it to Uncle.

He takes a cautious sip and fails to hide a grimace. “Very...bracing. Is that jasmine?”

“Yes.”

“I didn’t think I had any jasmine tea with me. I do hope my memory isn’t going…” He holds a hand to his head.

“No, no.” You wave your hands, short, agitated little motions. “No. Lanfen gave it to me.”

Uncle turns an amber eye on you. “Lanfen?”

You shrug, uncomfortable. “Just someone I met, who was kind to me.”

“I hope you were kind to her in return,” Uncle says. His tone is heavy with withheld disapproval.

You shrug again. You don’t quite want to say you were kind as well, because you don’t think you were. Instead, you scared her and yelled about Kyoshi Island and made her cry. That’s not kindness of any sort.

“Who mended my shirt? It looks dreadful,” Uncle grumbles, picking at his clothes.

“I did,” you reply shortly.

Uncle pauses, obviously surprised. A little less irritably, he says, “And did this Lanfen teach you how to sew?”

“Yes,” you say.

“Hm.”

“She was a good teacher,” you say quickly. For some reason, it feels important to defend her from your Uncle’s bad mood. “I just wasn’t a good student.”

To your surprise, Uncle holds up a hand. “No…,” he says, voice soft. “You work very hard. I’ve always recognized that.”

_ Then why do I never make any progress? _ You think but do not say.

As silence begins to loom, you take the teacup from Uncle and pour him another cup of tea. He doesn’t look thrilled about it, but you guess you wouldn’t be thrilled about anything either, not so soon after being hurt by Azula.

Staring into his tea, which he studiously avoids drinking, Uncle says, “I feel as if I’ve been given a few days to recuperate, not as if Azula just attacked me. How long was I unconscious?”

“A couple hours,” you reply. “The -  _ Katara  _ healed you.”

“Katara?”

“The waterbender girl. The one with the Avatar.”

Uncle nearly drops his cup of tea. “I see. That must have been quite the interaction. How did you get her to heal me?”

“They offered. It seemed foolish to refuse the help.”

“Foolish indeed…” Uncle trails off into thought.

The word  _ sorry _ lingers on your tongue like a bad taste, but you don’t know how to say it. It’s as if there is a disconnect between your mind and your mouth. You want to apologize for - for  _ everything _ , but you also want to hear Uncle apologize too. You’re just not sure what for. You can’t look at him anymore. You stare at your hands, at the calluses from the sewing needle and the farm work.

Instead of anything good coming out of your mouth, you say, “So. Uncle, I've been thinking. It's only a matter of time before I run into Azula again. I'm going to need to know more advanced firebending if I want to stand a chance against her. I know what you're going to say: she's my sister and I should be trying to get along with her.”

“No! She’s crazy and she needs to go down,” Uncle exclaims. More seriously, he says, “It’s time to resume your training.”

 

 

You sit with Uncle some distance away from the abandoned town, in a large empty space, where nothing can catch fire. 

“I want to be able to catch up to Azula. I want to be able to do what she does. I want to understand how to bend lightning,” you say.

“Okay…” Uncle says slowly. “Lightning is a pure form of firebending, without aggression. It is not fueled by rage or emotion the way other firebending is. Some call lightning the cold-blooded fire. It is precise and deadly, like Azula. To perform the technique requires peace of mind.”

You nod impatiently.

“I am not so sure this is the path for you, but I can teach you. Are you sure you want to learn this?”

“I want to learn,” you affirm.

“Very well. You know that energy is all around us. The energy is both yin and yang. Positive energy and negative energy. Only a select few firebenders can separate these energies. This creates an imbalance. The energy wants to restore balance, and in a moment the positive and negative energy come crashing back together, you provide release and guidance, creating lightning.”

He stands. Stepping away from you, he holds his hands about a foot apart from each other. Cool blue sparks begin to dance between his palms. As you watch, an arc of electricity grows between his hands and he moves, throwing the lightning across the valley, where it crashes into the boulders with a sound like thunder. 

It’s awesome.

With that power at your fingertips, you’ll be a match for Azula.

“I’m ready to try it,” you say. You stand as well.

“Remember, once you form the energy, you no longer command it. You are only it’s humble guide. Take a few breaths and clear your mind.”

“Right.” You close your eyes and hold your hands a foot apart, just as Uncle had done. You try to keep your mind clear, visualizing sparks between your fingertips, as cold and bright as the stars. You feel heat on your palms, and when you look, there’s nothing. Why can’t you do this simple thing right? You feel a flash of anger and - 

It all blows up in your face.

You can hear Uncle sigh, and your face burns with scarlet embarrassment.

 

 

Try as you might, you cannot succeed. Eventually, you plop to the ground, exhausted. “Why can’t I do this right?” you ask, upset. “No matter how much I clear my mind, it keeps exploding in my face, just like everything always does.”

Uncle comes to stand beside you. The sun casts his shadow cool across your skin.

“I was afraid this might happen,” he tells you. Of course, he told you from the beginning that you were too stupid to get it. Of  _ course _ . “You will not be able to master lightning until you have dealt with the turmoil inside you.”

“What turmoil?” Considering your entire life, you feel that you’re actually relatively stable.

“Zuko, you must let go of your feelings of shame if you want that anger to go away.”

Irrationally, you feel a flare of anger at his words. You almost want to shout at him, but you say, calmly, “But I don’t feel any shame at all. I’m as proud as ever.”

And it’s true. You haven’t let yourself forget who you are. You are still the heir to the throne if you have anything to say about it, and you are still the son of the Fire Lord. It’s not like you’re  _ nothing _ .

“Pride is not the opposite of shame, but its source,” Uncle lectures you. “True humility is the antidote to shame.”

“Well, my life has been nothing but humbling for the last few years,” you grumble.

Uncle doesn’t say anything in response, but he pats your shoulder. Almost grateful, you lean into his hand. But the pats slow, then stop. After a moment, he says, “I have another idea. I’ll show you a move even Azula doesn’t know, because I made it up myself.”

You smile, slow and sweet.

“All right.” Uncle finds a stick and begins to draw the symbols of the Four Nations into the dirt. “Fire, as you well know, is the element of power. The people of the Fire Nation have desire and will, and the energy and drive to achieve what they want.”

You nod.

“Earth is the element of substance. The people of the Earth Kingdom are diverse and strong, persistent and enduring.”

You think of Chen, how she was like a rock, stable and steady and hardworking. You think of Lanfen, who despite her fear, continued to endure. You even think of Song, how she remained stubbornly kind despite her losses.

You nod again.

“Air is the element of freedom,” Uncle continues as he draws. “The Air Nomads detached themselves from worldly concerns and found peace. Until the war, that is. But they apparently had a pretty good sense of humor!”

You think of Aang. Maybe his friendship thing was him playing a joke on you. That seems likely.

“Finally, water is the element of change. The people of the Water Tribe are capable of adapting to anything. They have a deep sense of community and love that holds them together.”

Curious, but slightly annoyed by the seemingly irrelevant information, you ask, “Why are you telling me these things?”

“It is important to draw wisdom from many different places,” Uncle states. “If you take it from only one place, it grows rigid and stale. Understanding others, and the other elements, and the other nations will help you become whole. It will help you understand yourself.” He draws a circle around the four symbols.

Guardedly, you say, “All this four elements talk is sounding like Avatar stuff.”

“Balance between elements is important. It is what the Avatar represents, and what makes him so powerful. But it is also what you represent, and it can make you powerful too.”

Before you can puzzle out his meaning, Uncle continues, “You see, the technique I’m about to teach you is one I learned by studying the waterbenders. Get up, and I will show you.”

The movements feel at once unnatural and somehow, oddly,  _ right _ . Like you were made for them, like you were made for firebending. You don’t have any suddenly delusions about bending water, but you do feel that maybe for once you’ll be good at something special. You flow where there once was sharpness. It’s like walking from shadow to shadow, slipping in and out of darkness like a moth bat.

You understand that getting lightning thrown at you is dangerous, so you wait until you really think you’re ready. And then you tell him.

And Uncle says, “Are you crazy?! Zuko. I am  _ not _ throwing lightning at you.”

“Why not?” you manage to say through a mouth suddenly dry.

“Why not? It’s incredibly dangerous! It’s nothing I wish for you to ever need to use.”

“Then what’s the point of teaching it to me then?” you hiss. You’re angry, yet again and suddenly, like crab snake that someone stepped on. You just don’t understand - why give you the runaround? 

Uncle backtracks. “I mean that I wish you never have to use it, but I fear you will.”

“Well if I don’t try it now, then we won’t know if I can do it when my opponent wants me  _ dead _ . We need to try it now.”

Uncle looks pained. “I don’t want to hurt you, Zuko!”

“You won’t hurt me if I can just do it right!”

“I am not willing to take the chance,” he says quietly.

In response, something snaps and the anger suddenly goes cool and crystal clear. You understand. You understand everything now.

“I get it,” you say slowly, wondering how you never saw it before. “You’re just saying you don’t believe in me.”

“Zuko - ”

But it’s too late. You’re already gone.

 

 

The thing about Earth Kingdom weather is that it turns to storms suddenly. It’s not as mercurial as the Fire Nation’s climate, but it can be dramatic. A storm might just be threatening on the horizon, clouds just burgeoning and beginning to darken and swell, and then with a roll of thunder, the storm will arrive.

Lightning arcs in the sky and you race to meet it. If Uncle won’t hurt you, you’ll just have to do it yourself. And you won’t get hurt. Not if you can just do it right.

It shouldn’t be so hard.

But the storm screams and rages in the sky with no lightning coming down to meet you. You scream and rage back, matching its fury. Rain pounds your skin, falls into your open mouth. You roar, you cry, you wail. You twist yourself into a monster.

 

 

And a long, long time, after the rain has ceased, you return to the side of the man who doesn’t believe in you. Who never did.

Not even for one day.

You aren’t sure why you go back, but there’s nowhere else to go. Not really. And besides, you love him. Despite everything, you love him.

As soon as you appear, Uncle rushes to you. With steaming hands, he dries you off. “I thought you might not return,” he murmurs.

You shrug.

“Zuko.” Uncle brings gentle hands to either side of your face, where they hover, not quite touching. “Zuko, I never meant to imply that I don’t believe in you. I just couldn’t bear to see you get hurt.”

“Oh, I understand,” you say.

“I always saw more in you. And well - sewing! Truces with the Avatar! That’s more even than I ever expected. It’s wonderful to see you grow.”

You close your eyes and lean into his hands. It sounds so good. It feels so good to hear.

But that doesn’t make it true, no matter how much you wish it were.


End file.
